


Weather With You

by TheWuzzy



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Annie Cresta-Centric, Bisexual Male Character, Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Loss of Innocence, M/M, Mental Instability, Murder, Ocean, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 13:23:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 95,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17746703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWuzzy/pseuds/TheWuzzy
Summary: They didn’t take down his banners for the whole year after he won, and his face stared down at us from every street corner with the smile that always gave me the wrong sort of chills. The girls at school loved him, but I remember him from back when we were small, and that makes it different somehow. Before his parents took him up to the white house on the hill and he joined the Careers, I remember that he used to love to swim. So I don’t like seeing him, although he’s certainly gorgeous. Every time I do, I remember the look that was in his eyes when he speared the final tribute through the heart with his trident, and I remember that he’s someone who used to be like me.This is the story of Annie and Finnick. This is the story of how they loved, how they lived, and how they brought each other back from the edge. Welcome to The 70th Hunger Games.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my sister for Beta-ing this monster baby. I owe you one.
> 
> I've done my best to make this story completely canon, except for three things:  
> 1) I invented the idea of Career Dispensation.  
> 2) Johanna wins the Games before Annie (because hell, I wasn't going to miss the chance to include that firecracker, was I?!)  
> 3) This one's a spoiler. But trust me...you'll know when you get there.
> 
> Lastly, there's depiction of a character experiencing mental breakdown and PTSD in this story. I have done my best to portray this as empathetically and accurately as I am able to, based on my limited knowledge of mental illness. Any inaccuracies or problematic aspects are completely my own error.

There’s a fine drizzle falling as we gather in the square. I don’t mind getting wet. I look up at the clouds, but not to pray. The sky is sliced through with power lines and pale enough to hurt my eyes despite the spitting rain. We’re packed in tight here, and most people have gone to some effort. It’s always good to look your best on choosing day, Mom says, what with all the cameras of the nation pointed straight at you. I say that’s stupid, because there are more than a thousand teenagers here and they can’t possibly see us all. Even so, I scooped up my light brown hair in a clasp on the back of my head this morning, and I’m wearing the best shoes I own.

‘Welcome, District 4, to the choosing ceremony for the70th annual Hunger Games!’

I don’t listen to the man with the purple hair who reads out the names. I never do. He’s a tiny figure against the sweeping white backdrop of the town hall, which rises up behind him with its two square turrets and central clock tower. His voice sounds odd; not quite the distinct Capitol dialect I’m used to hearing on screen, over recordings, but certainly no longer the accent of a man who came from District 4.

I’m nearer the front than most, and I can make out the raised rows just in front of the temporary stage. That’s where the Career tributes stand, all dressed in white, slim fitting jackets, mirroring the white of the peacekeepers’ uniforms. There are almost a hundred Careers this year. When I was twelve, Mayor Brockford said he wanted us to ‘up our game’ so that we could ‘show the other Districts what we’ve got.’ After that they came round all the schools, and took away the hopefuls. The strong ones, the ruthless ones.

The ones who needed the money.

They say that in Districts One and Two, it’s the parents who pay for them to take their children. Families will ruin themselves to win their child a chance at glory.

Only Districts 1 to 3 have dispensation allowing their Careers to volunteer as tributes every year. I know Mayor Brockford applied for the same allowance, as part of his plans to raise the status of our District. Rumor is the Capitol wouldn’t have it. Who would want the Games to be full of Careers every year? That would spoil all the fun. That would make the fighting too equal. There’d be no point in the choosing ceremony. People would get complacent.

And yet for six years now, District 4 has put forward two Career tributes every year. In six years, only one has come back.

I crane my neck over the heads in front of me to see where the old Victors, standing ranged in a line on the stage, have their hard-set faces projected on the vast screens either side. Mags Cohen won before my father was even born, but her eyes don’t let you forget it. Iron-haired Shona Mackenney; my mother remembers how she strangled the last two boys who faced her down, and took a dagger to the one who begged for mercy. Her husband, Conway Eschea, won two years later with dark eyes and a smile sharper than his blade.  Maxine Reedbuck was quick, so quick, that they didn’t like the Games in the Capitol that year. Josiah Tetham won when he drowned District One’s final Career in the mud.

And Finnick Odair.

District 4’s very own poster boy - the most casually dressed of them all, of course, his white cotton shirt is open at the neck. It’s unusual to see him here at all. He’s normally in the Capitol with a Capitol woman on his arm, young as he is. Maybe a year older than me. Maybe less. Now his green eyes are narrowed, his jaw clenched; perhaps he’s not so happy to be back, to be reminded where he came from. If it wasn’t for his Games he’d be down here among us, the boys and girls who will grow up to be thrifty fishwives and strong armed sailors.

They didn’t take down his banners for the whole year after he won, and his face stared down at us from every street corner with the smile that always gave me the wrong sort of chills. The girls at school loved him, but I remember him from back when we were small, and that makes it different somehow. Before his parents took him up to the white house on the hill and he joined the Careers, I remember that he used to love to swim.

So I don’t like seeing him, although he’s certainly gorgeous. Every time I do, I remember the look that was in his eyes when he speared the final tribute through the heart with his trident, and I remember that he’s someone who used to be like me.

It makes me sick. The Games always make me sick.

Mom named Finn after him, and before I entered the square she buried her face in Finn’s hair as she squeezed my hand.

Finn is nearly three and the only one of us young enough to be completely safe. Marcus is eleven, and watches every second of the Games with eyes wide and breath caught in his throat, even as I hide my face from the blood. But my family have never been desperate enough to put Marcus forward as a Career, not even the year the storms were so bad that all the electricity cut out, and for a fortnight we waded ankle deep in water. We ate into half a season’s stock that summer. Old Bab’s house, right down by the waterfront, was completely washed away, and when the sea finally settled all that was left was driftwood. It looked like the waves had thrown up all along the quay, soiling the sand brown and leaving stones and bits of plastic scattered across the streets. That’s where I found Bab’s corpse, twisted and bloated and caught among the wreckage of his furniture.

‘Firstly, for our male tribute.’

If Marcus was chosen I think I would die. But they always choose the Careers; somehow, it always comes out that way. Even so, I clutch my brother harder by the shoulders.

‘Clyde Laiken!’

I don’t know him, and my grip on my brother’s shoulders lessens slightly. Heads turn to see where he’ll come from. Then the picture on the screens zooms in on a tall, dark skinned boy in white. One of the Career tributes. He stands up taller, face splitting into a grin, and pushes through his fellows up onto the stage.

 ‘Welcome, Clyde. It’s a delight to see such enthusiasm,’ the purple-haired man ushers him up to stand by his side. ‘And now, for this year’s female tribute.’

This is my final year, and for six years they’ve always picked a Career.

I’m almost safe.

Annie-can’t-kill, they used to call me. Squeamish Annie. I know I deserved it. It’s just that when I was younger I couldn’t bear to watch anything die, not even fish. It always made the bile rise in my throat. _I’m sorry,_ I would whisper to them, tracing their gasping gills with my fingers as they lay out on the promenade in their hundreds, thousands, silver bodies flapping and sparkling in the light as they thrash for water. After Josiah’s year, I didn’t want to eat them any more either.

Of course, I got over myself soon enough. You can’t afford the luxury of being a vegetarian in District 4. Not down here by the water at least, in the lowest levels.

The purple-haired man rummages in the glass bowl, shifting through bits of paper.

‘Be grateful,’ my father always said, ‘Be grateful you live in a District where the food is plentiful and everyone has a roof over their heads. Count your blessings and be grateful.’

Everyone knows that in the Lesser Districts, children sometimes starve.

So I help to bring the catch in, and I swim out far with my net. I swim better than my father ever could; I swim better than anyone. In summer when the sun cuts clear through the water, I run down the beach and swim out along the bottom for hours. The weeds brush past my face and small, flickering fish dart away from the touch of my fingertips as I send rippling bubbles back up to the surface. What I love most is the silence, heavy all around me.

The man with the purple hair unfolds the slip of paper. I’m not completely safe. But I’m eighteen, this is my final year, and they always choose a Career.

_‘Annie Cresta.’_

That’s my name, by the way. He’s saying my name.

Annie.

***********************************

_No._

My attempt to flee is so instinctive that I am moving before I realize what has happened. I am an animal with the hunter upon me. I make it three steps, bursting between the two boys standing behind me, before someone grabs my wrists and pulls me up short.

‘Let me go,’ I gasp, ripping my hands from her. But instead she wraps her arms around me so I cannot move.

‘Annie, stop!’ It’s Julie, my friend from down by the quay, my oldest friend in the world. Her eyes are bright with tears. ‘You have to go up there, Annie. Or the peacekeepers will chase you down.’

I stare around me at the surrounding sea of faces. Their expressions are hard, identical, so much older than the adolescent faces that wear them. I have never felt fear like this before.

‘Annie, listen to me.’ Julie really is crying now. ‘You have to go up to the stage. You have to go up there and show that you’re not afraid.’

The audience already know I’m terrified. If I run, they’ll also know I’m a coward.

Shaking, I nod. Julie slowly releases her arms, grasping the fabric of my sleeve for a second as I turn back around. ‘Annie, I -’

I don’t hear what she says. I walk forward through the crowd of people, who silently part in front of me. Perhaps some of them pity me. But I know that mostly, they’re glad it isn’t them who has been chosen. A hand clutches my own, and I look down to see Marcus walking alongside me. His eyes are wide, but now it’s with fear, not excitement.

I have been chosen as tribute. I cannot think about what that means. I cannot listen to the voices in my mind. All I can do is keep making my way to the front, one step at a time. When I reach the front row, the Career tributes ranged above me, I gently unclasp Marcus’ hand.

‘Go home, find Mom,’ I whisper. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll see you later.’

He says nothing, but sinks back into the crowd as I climb the steps onto the stage.

‘Welcome, Annie Cresta.’ The purple-haired man’s smile is wide and bright and hollow. I sense the Victors’ eyes on me as I pass. Conway’s gaze is full of undisguised curiosity. Shona seems almost triumphant. There’s a curling smile on Finnick Odair’s lips.

As I turn to stand by the side of the man with purple hair and stare out across the pale, hostile faces below me, it’s all I can do to stop myself from throwing up. I grab handfuls of my skirt to hide the fact that my hands are trembling. Is someone speaking? I don’t know. I can’t hear anything over the roaring in my head.

 When the purple-haired man reaches for my hand, raising it over my head, I start and try to pull it back. I know that the terror on my face is being projected back onto the screens, that my freckles are standing out against skin that’s white with fear for the whole of Panem to see. But on the other side of the purple-haired man Clyde Laiken grins, embracing the moment he’s probably planned for his entire life, and now the crowd is cheering.

They’re cheering for my death.

***********************************

As soon as the ceremony is over I don’t wait to be excused, but rush straight past the peacekeepers standing at the side of the stage, faces hidden behind the reflective mirrors of their visors. Someone calls at me to stop. I push through the Careers, clatter down the steps and run down into the crowd. My vision is blurred, but I almost sense that people are wordlessly moving aside. Friends, acquaintances, people from the outskirts, people from the outlying villages, people I’ve never seen before. People I’m not ever going to see again.

When I’m free of the throng I don’t stop for a moment, even as my lungs heave in relief and I gasp in a breath of the cool, damp air. My feet pound the paving slabs as I run down the main street, one two, one two, my patent kitten heels hitting the ground. My hair works itself free of its clasp until it streams behind me, beating against my shoulders. The streets are mainly deserted and I ignore the few people I pass. All I focus on is the sound of my own breathing and the familiar buildings rushing past either side of me as I run down, down through the streets.

My feet are kicking up sand now and I hear the sea soon enough; I round a corner and it’s there, slate blue waves beating the quay as it always does, as it always has done and will never cease to. Something chokes inside me, and for the first time I let out a sob. I pause to catch my breath and squint out over the water, across the bay where the beach glistens in the sunlight just emerging from between the clouds.

‘Annie!’

Marcus, and behind him Mom, and my father carrying Finn against his shoulder. I grasp for their arms, my shoulders heaving with another sob. My father crushes me to him and I shake silently as I hug one arm round Marcus’ shoulders and use the other to stroke Finn’s hair. Mom clutches me from the other side so that Marcus is pressed between our skirts. Finn sucks his thumb, eyes frightened at the commotion. ‘Shh,’ I soothe, smoothing the hair back from his forehead. ‘It’s okay. Don’t worry, it’s okay.’

 After a few seconds they pull away, and my father holds me by the shoulders.

‘Dad,’ I say, and my voice is choking. His lip trembles but he does not speak, because what is there to say?

‘You’ll fight them, won’t you Annie?’ says Marcus, voice higher pitched than it has been for months now. ‘You’re the best sister I ever had. You’ll show them and you’ll win.’

I silently clutch him to my chest, heart pounding.

‘Miss Cresta,’ says a voice, and I turn to see a young woman in square glasses and a sharp grey suit, flanked by two peacekeepers. ‘You will return to the town hall for your official registration before departure.’

No. It’s too soon. ‘I haven’t even said good bye,’ I choke.

‘You are already behind schedule. We must depart immediately.’

‘You’re taking my daughter from me,’ my father says, ‘The least you can damn do is let us say our goodbyes.’

‘She hasn’t packed any belongings yet,’ my mother must be panicking; practical thoughts are always how she hides her distress.

‘That will not be necessary, she will be entirely provided for.’ The woman’s lips tighten. ‘You have two minutes.’

‘Please,’ I whisper, ‘Please don’t take me.’

She is silent.

‘Please let me go home,’ I say, but it comes out as a sobbing gasp, and she will not reply.

‘Annie,’ my mother pulls me to her and folds her arms around me, ‘Annie.’

For two minutes, then, I stand out on the quay with the arms of my family wrapped around me. I close my eyes and breathe slowly, breathe in the scent of my mother’s newly pressed gingham dress and the tang of sea salt that accompanies my father whenever he goes. The breeze lifts my hair and my fingers are wrapped tightly through the hands of my brothers. Marcus’ already showing the first soft calluses of a boy who’s begun to work, and Finn’s still tiny yet with a toddler’s grip so firm it makes the lump in my throat ache further. We would stay like this for hours, but two minutes goes far more quickly when it’s final.

We slowly peel apart.

‘We’re so proud of you,’ my mother whispers, clutching my face in her hands. Her brown eyes search mine, earnest, pleading. ‘We’re so proud of you, and we love you so much. Whatever happens, remember that.’

_I love you too._ I love them so much. But I can’t force out the words.

‘Annie, will you come back?’ says Finn, voice muffled because he will not stop sucking his thumb. ‘Annie go, but come back soon.’

He presses something small into my hand. Shelleysticks, his little doll. Blue points for eyes, a red yarn for hair, and the heroine of every invented game I have played with my brothers since Marcus was old enough to want to play with me.

My face crumples but still I force out the lie I can’t deny him.

‘Yes, Finny. Annie will come back.’

***********************************

The sharp-suited woman leaves me in a room dominated by a large computer bank. The glass screen and silver processor seem out of place against the old-style furnishings. As I stand before it, it hums and boots up with a soft blue glow.

The woman suddenly puts a finger to her ear and frowns. ‘Yes, I’ll be there right away.’ She looks up. ‘Stay here.’

The door shuts and I am left alone. Slowly, I sink down to the floor.

‘Welcome, District 4 tribute,’ says a soft female voice. ‘Please commence registration.’

My knees are clutched up to my chest. _Annie-can’t-kill._ The echo of my heartbeat rings in my ears, the veins in my wrists suddenly uncomfortably close to the surface. I’m suddenly acutely aware of the fragility of my body.

‘Welcome, District 4 tribute,’ the voice repeats, ‘Please commence registration.’

_Annie the coward._

It takes everything, but shakily, I rise to my feet.

I place my hand on the outline appearing on the screen in front of me, and it’s an effort to keep my fingers straight. I feel the small pulse as a laser reads my palm.

‘Identification: Annie Cresta. Female, 18. Residence: Area B1, ocean side. District citizen ID: Delta Two Gamma Four.’

Pictures appear on screen – an area map with my house position marked, the photo of me that was taken at the last census four years ago. I look young, my cheeks soft. I was only just starting to grow. Hazel eyes gazing out at me from a tanned, freckled face. Wispy hair escaping from my two braids and refusing to lie flat in the ridiculous bangs Mom had cut me that year.

 ‘Tribute status: non-Career. Projected life expectancy: eleven days. Information updated.’

I rip my hand from the glass and the screen cuts out.

_Annie the coward. Annie-can’t-kill._

_Annie, you’re going to die._

‘No,’ I whisper, hands pressed to my ears, as though I can block out the sound of my own thoughts. ‘No.’

The woman has not returned, and I can no longer bear to be alone in this room with the walls pressing in on me. I open the door, and it opens out into a wide corridor lit at intervals by lamps clutched in gilded holders on the walls. To my left is the way I came in. To my right, I hear voices. Human voices. Anything will be better than the taunting of my mind.

I walk down the corridor to where a heavy oaken door at the end stands ajar. Inside is a large room with a beamed ceiling and a wall length bookcase behind an elegant, carved wooden desk. I stand in the doorway of the mayor’s office, but its occupants don’t notice I’m here.

‘How was this allowed to happen?’ Mayor Brockhurst is furious, pacing across the plush carpet. ‘She’s a girl from the quay. A nobody. This was never supposed to happen.’

The purple-haired man stands with his hands braced on the collar of his sharp navy suit. ‘The Capitol doesn’t appreciate any local attempts at interfering with official proceedings.’

The mayor spins, face red. ‘Are you accusing me of rigging the vote?’ he hisses.

On the opposite side of the room, Finnick Odair leans against the wood paneled wall. His arms are crossed. ‘Perhaps Mr Ballantine is just pointing out that for the past few years the odds have seemed bizarrely… in the Careers’ favor.’

‘I’m warning you, Odair,’ Brockhurst says, raising a hand.

‘It is true that in recent years, the choosing ceremony has shown unlikely statistical precedence towards Career tributes,’ the man with the purple hair says coldly.

‘There’d be even more,’ Brockhurst splutters, ‘With a lot more Victors too, if our District was given the respect it deserves, and Careers could volunteer –’

‘Yet unfortunately the Capitol has not seen fit to grant Dispensation,’ continues the purple haired man, ‘And until such honors are forthcoming, rest assured that checks and balances have been instituted to ensure that any… discrepancies in the odds will not be occurring in the future.’ He tilts his head forward, softly threatening. ‘No further enquiry into the matter will be conducted. For now.’

A vein ticks in the mayor’s neck.

Finnick shrugs languidly and smiles that creeping smile of his. ‘It’s a shame, really. Perhaps diverting all those funds to the Careers’ school wasn’t such a good idea after all. And all that money on the dispensation application gone to waste. Think what a better chance the District’d have at winning if only you’d invested in equipping all our children with basic survival skills as part of their schooling, something which as a matter of fact I suggested – ’

‘Odair, that’s _enough_ ,’ Brockhurst’s hand slams down hard on the desk. I jump, and Finnick’s head whips round.

‘Annie Cresta,’ he says, as though the words are fascinating to him, and pushes himself off the wall in a feline stretch. I swallow, because there’s something terrifying about his beauty.

‘How long have you been standing there?’ demands Brockhurst. ‘Who let you down here?’

‘Enough of this,’ says the purple-haired man, ‘The train will be leaving for the Capitol shortly, and it’s time the mentors were assigned. Though I imagine Ms Mackenney has already claimed young Clyde.’

Mentors? Of course. The Victor whose job it will be to try and keep me alive. I don’t know whether I want to laugh or throw up.

‘Follow me, Annie,’ says Finnick Odair.

I walk behind him as we retrace my steps down the corridor. He wears a cord of twisted leather around his neck and I focus on a point between his shoulder blades; the muscles in his back move under his thin shirt. I know that if I was smart, I would ask him questions right now. Learn as many tricks as I can.

For me, keeping my mind blank is more important. If I keep my breathing steady for long enough, slowly the urge I have to scream may settle.

‘You really threw us off out there this afternoon, Annie,’ he says, without pausing in his stride. ‘The reaction you provoked from the mayor when they read out your name was actually rather impressive.’

I don’t know what to say, so I stay quiet. We pass along another corridor and by a large window set into an alcove. I crane my neck at the tops of roofs outside, and a sky that’s shining its more customary blue.

‘Annie,’ Finnick’s fallen back so that he’s walking alongside of me, ‘Fifty Careers out there are going home tonight sulking about how their dreams have been stolen by a girl from down by the water.’ His lips curl into a half smile. ‘You little heartbreaker.’

‘You think it’s funny that I was chosen.’ My voice is sullen.

His lips thin. ‘I find it ironic.’

‘They’ve been altering the vote.’ It’s not a question.

‘Be careful what you accuse people of, Miss Cresta,’ says Finnick. ‘The Capitol is always listening.’ His tone is mocking, but I’m not sure towards whom.

I don’t like that he calls me Miss, not when he’s barely a year older than I am. He stops at a door and reaches out to turn the handle. The fine hair of his arm is bleached blonde against the bronze of his skin. I’ve seen that arm so many times on screen, tendons tight as it grips a trident, stained up to the elbow in blood.

He opens the door and I follow him inside. District 4’s other Victors sit or stand ranged around the room, which unlike the previous two I’d entered makes no pretense at emulating a style of centuries gone. Clyde Laiken stands to one side. I cannot bring myself to face their hungry gazes, so I look down to my shoes, and then, squeezing Finn’s doll in my fist, I change my mind, and raise my head to stare at the wall straight ahead of me.

‘There you are,’ says Maxine Reedbuck lazily. ‘We thought you’d spirited the girl away.’

‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ says Finnick, feigning offence, ‘Why would I want to do that, when this new development has made the Games more interesting than they’ve been in years?’

Conway Eschea gave a snort. ‘If you like her so much, you can keep her. I won’t mentor a dead duck.’

Dead duck. That’s what we call skiffs that have taken one too many poundings in the summer storms, the ones leaking so that there’s no hope of fixing them and are fit for nothing but to be broken up.

‘Laiken’s mine, by the way,’ says Shona Mackenney, ‘He always was a promising candidate in the academy.’

Laiken’s handsome face has not had the training to quite hide his satisfaction.

Josiah inclines his head. ‘I’ll defer to that. I took one last year.’

‘The girl will be… a challenge,’ says Maxine.

‘Challenge,’ says Conway, ‘She’s going to die.’

_Annie_ , the voice in my head echoes, slow and singsong, _Annie, you’re going to die._

‘Shut up, Conway,’ says Maxine. ‘Annie, wasn’t it?’

I realise she’s speaking to me, but she doesn’t seem to require an answer. She saunters towards me and cups my face in her hand, turning it this way and that. Her gaze is business like, efficient, and I try not to look away. ‘It can be done, girl. It can always be done. Even the dead ducks. You’ll have to fight tooth and nail and bleeding heart for it, but it can still be done.’

‘You got first choice last year, Maxy. She’s mine.’

I glance sideways at Finnick. I don’t really care which of these strangers mentors me for the final two weeks of my life. But I don’t want to spend my last days looking into the face of this boy, not when the past five years have never allowed me escape it for even a day.

Maxine raises an eyebrow.

‘The Capitol gets boring after a while,’ Finnick shrugs, ‘All those multimillion power plays and politicians sucking up to each other. This will liven things up.’

Josiah snorts. ‘You were always a terrible liar, Odair. But if you want her she’s yours.’

_What if I don’t want him to mentor me_ , the thought trails through my mind. But my throat aches too much at the memory of my family’s faces and my head is still ringing with shock for me to care enough to speak.

Maxine shrugs, and Shona nods. ‘As I said, it’s fine by me,’ says Conway. ‘I look forward to seeing what you make of her.’

‘Mags?’ Finnick asks, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think that he is seeking approval from this old, frail lady, who stands silently behind the others.

She gives him a warm smile, and that decides it.

Finnick Odair will be my mentor.

***********************************

Houses scatter by. Stretches of marshland, flickering reeds. Swaying palm trees and glimpses of the sea in between. Then larger, firmer trees, and the sea disappears. And after that there are no more buildings.

My fingers endlessly turn Shelleysticks in my fingers. The smooth, cylindrical plastic limbs are comforting somehow. I’ve taken nothing else with me, nothing from the only home I’ve ever known. My other hand is pressed against the glass of the window, partially obscuring the trees for moments as they flash by.

As everything rushes away from me in blurs of green through the window my forehead is pressed against, I know that it’s useless to wish for going back. Then the last landmark I recognize is whisked from my view.

_All gone,_ says the voice in my head, and for once it almost sounds forlorn.

I stand here, shivering, for what feels like an age.

A door slides open, and then Finnick comes to stand at the window beside me. I do not shift my gaze from the rushing scenery but I see his reflection in the window, his hands in his pockets. Neither of us speaks for a while. I don’t bother to blink back the tears.

‘What if I don’t want you to be my mentor?’ I finally find the words to articulate the thought I’ve been batting through my mind all morning. My throat is cracked, and the words come out scratchy.

Finnick frowns. ‘Then it would have been helpful if you’d pointed that out earlier.’

I shrug. ‘I had other things to think about.’ _It took everything I had not to run away._

Finnick sighs. ‘Look at me, Annie.’

I turn to face him, peeling my hand from the glass. It leaves a print of condensation, which shrinks and disappears.

My image of him is distorted, because my  vision is swimming. He has shrugged a soft beige jacket on over his cotton shirt, and his blonde hair, which was styled perfectly earlier, is now haphazard as though he’s raked his fingers through it. Maybe I’d be intimidated that I’m stood three feet from District 4’s most eligible bachelor if today was any other day. If I hadn’t just been chosen as tribute.

‘We both know how this works,’ Finnick says. ‘I’ve been assigned as your mentor, and you’re our newest female tribute.  Which means that for the next week and a bit it’s my job to equip you as best I can to help you win the Games.’

‘Winning,’ I murmur, ‘That’s ambitious.’

‘Survive the Games then,’ he says, with a shrug. ‘It all amounts to the same thing.’ He gives a half-smile, one of those Finnick-smiles I recognize from every photograph. ‘You should be less pessimistic, because you’re going to be learning from an expert.’

I guess he’s used to people laughing at his jokes. Because when I don’t respond, the humor is immediately gone.

‘The first thing you need to know is that the Games don’t start when that klaxon sounds in the Arena,’ Finnick says. ‘The Games started the moment Aenon chose your name from the bowl. From now on, every movement you make, every choice you make, affects whether you’re going to live or die.’

_Or at least how long it’s going to_ take _you to die,_ says my taunting voice.

Finnick must read it in my eyes, because he doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, ‘Do you know how many Games have been won by Career tributes since their conception?’

It’s a stupid question. He doesn’t wait for an answer.

‘Because the answer is thirty four. Of the sixty nine Hunger Games this country has celebrated, over half have been won by non-Careers.’ He smiles slightly. ‘And that’s not taking into account the vote-rigging to get the Careers into the Games in the first place.’

‘I’m flattered that you have hope,’ I say.

‘From now on, that’s my job.’

‘But I also know that everything you say is exactly what you think I want to hear.’

His eyes narrow and the smile widens. ‘Not quite right. Everything I say is what you need to hear.’

I turn back to the window. The doll twists in my fingers.

‘Is that from your brother?’

I look up at him, startled.

‘The doll. Did your brother give that to you? Marcus, isn’t it.’

‘How do you know I have a brother?’

Finnick purses his lips. ‘I just about remember him, actually, back when we were small. I remember your family.’

I had no idea he remembered who I was, and I’m not really sure what to say. ‘Marcus is too old for dolls now. It’s Finn’s. He’s three.’

‘And little Finn expects you to give that back to him, doesn’t he?’

I almost laugh. ‘What was I supposed to tell him? That in two weeks he’s going to watch his sister die?’

Finnick grabs me by the shoulders, and I try not to blanch. It’s hard not to think of the death he’s dealt out with these bronzed, calloused fingers.

‘How badly do you want to be able to keep that promise to your brother?’

‘More than anything,’ I breathe.

His eyes search mine, earnest. They’re not a pure colour; they’re flecked with blue and darker shades. Like the sea. _Don’t be_ _ridiculous, Annie_.

‘Then let me help you, Annie Cresta.’

My fingers tighten round the doll, firm. I will try to survive.

I nod.

***********************************

For now, we are left in the carriage alone. The train makes a soft humming noise, but here, with no windows, any movement is imperceptible. We sit in chairs side by side, both staring straight forward. I take quick glances at him from the sides of my eyes. Strong jaw, sweeping planes of his face, hair shorn short. The white of his fitted suit is striking against the dark of his skin.

He is my partner tribute, but he will also be my enemy. Does he have friends who were expecting to sit here in my place?

I’m not expecting him to be the one to break the silence. ‘Clyde Laiken,’ he says, and turns, holding out a hand. I cannot read the expression in his eyes.

I shake his hand. ‘Annie Cresta.’

‘I wish I could say that we could be friends,’ says Clyde. ‘But being friends with someone is difficult if you know you’re going to have to kill them.’

‘I understand.’ Then somehow I find myself adding: ‘Though I’m not sure why you assume _you_ will be doing the killing.’

Something flickers in his eyes, along with surprise. It might be amusement. How does he miss the lie I’m broadcasting with my whole body?

The door slides open, and the purple-haired man enters, followed by the young woman who took me to the town hall, Shona, and Finnick.

‘I’m going to run you through your itinerary,’ the man says, ‘But first I think it’s time we were all properly introduced.’

I don’t really hear him, because I’m imagining my fingers around Clyde’s neck, a knife in my hand to slide into his heart. Immediately bile rises in my throat. I cannot kill. I could never kill. Not even Clyde, a boy I barely know, a Career who will murder me as look at me when we’re in the Arena.

_Annie-can’t-kill._

‘My name is Aenon Ballantine,’ says the purple-haired man, barely sounding more enthused than he did earlier in the mayor’s office. ‘This is my assistant, Riley Sepulchre.’ The woman gives us a small smile, and then focuses back to her datapad, fingers darting across the screen as she enters information. I have been cut loose, thrown into a whirlpool of strangers.

‘As District 4’s escort,’ Ballantine continues, ‘I will remain with you for the remainder of your preparation time. Firstly, I would like to give you my congratulations on being chosen to represent our District this year.’ I don’t understand how his words can be genuine; perhaps they aren’t. But despite the fact that Aenon’s perfect smile fails to move me, Clyde sits bolt upright in his chair and I think he believes it.

‘You have each received an incredible honor, and have been chosen to be mentored by – dare I say it – perhaps our two finest Victors.’ He inclines his head at Shona and Finnick respectfully. ‘Finnick of course is our most recent Victor, but I and my team have high hopes that this year will see another Victor for our District… despite the slightly unusual circumstances.’

His eyes flicker to me. I notice that his irises are also purple.

‘This afternoon you will be introduced to your prep teams – no time to waste - after which we will have a light supper. By eight o’clock this evening we will be in our illustrious Capitol, where you have a rather fantastic ten days of preparation ahead of you.’ He smiles at the two Victors. ‘Well then, I’ll leave you to it. Miss Sepulchre?’ He turns to exit, heels of his pointy shoes rapping on the floor.

‘Follow me, Laiken,’ says Shona brusquely, and Clyde almost bursts from his chair to exit through the door at the other end of the carriage.

‘Enthusiastic, isn’t he?’ says Finnick, once we are left alone.

‘Laiken or Ballantine?’ I ask.

‘Laiken, of course,’ Finnick says. ‘Ballantine couldn’t sound less enthusiastic if he tried. Which is funny, because he loves every minute of this.’

 ‘What’s my prep team?’ I ask flatly.

Finnick chuckles. ‘You’ll find out in a minute. They’re a bit like me, but far more irritating. We’ve left Ophelia, your head stylist, back in the Capitol. She’s really the back-bone of this operation.’

‘I get a stylist?’ I say, confused.

Finnick raises his eyebrows. ‘Oh, Annie. Image is everything. You get four.’

***********************************

I thought I wouldn’t be able to eat, but I’m starving. Fortunately, a ‘light supper’ by Capitol standards is rather more food than I was expecting. It’s certainly unusual for me to see so much meat that isn’t fish. I try two new savoury dishes, and a pink, wobbling pudding I’ve never even heard of. Next to me, Clyde fills his plate again and again. There is more food than we can eat between us, but I refuse to believe that the leftovers will simply be thrown away.

I sit somewhat awkwardly at the table, because I feel as though I’ve been violently stripped and scrubbed like old wall paper. My prep team had taken one look at what I was wearing, then instructed me to undress on the spot so that it could be burnt. Clearly modesty isn’t going to do me any good here.

Ambrosia Agraphe ( _‘Ag-_ rah _-fay!’_ she had insisted, in her exaggerated Capitol accent), has hair which has entirely been replaced by thousands of thin glimmering strands of beads, piled up on her head in an elegant coif. Small and slim Magenta _‘But_ you _can call me Maggie!’_ Oberoi has eyeliner tattooed in cat-like sweeps, and metallic nails so long she surely can’t do anything with her hands. Ganymede Graphon, tall and dapper in a stout three piece suit, has his bald head tattooed with beautiful blue patterns all the way down to his eyebrows.

They had rushed me through a shower and washed my hair twice, although I told them I’d already done so this morning. I didn’t even know that trains _had_ showers. ‘It’s to work out all those nasty sea salts,’ Magenta had said, proceeding to then spray my hair with four different chemicals to ‘prepare’ it. Then Ambrosia waxed all the way up both my legs and under my arms, leaving my eyes watering, while Magenta rubbed my entire body in with a tub of moisturizing lotion which smelt faintly and deliciously of coconut.

‘We’ll leave your hair to Ophelia,’ said Ganymede, smiling broadly, ‘We’re only the prep team. She’s the _real_ stylist.’

‘Oh, you’re just going to adore her, Annie,’ Ambrosia sighed, ‘You must have heard of her. She’s a legend in fashion. So elegant. So queenly.’

I nodded, because I had heard of her. Tall, regal, with burnished skin and a long sweep of black hair. They’d interviewed her after Finnick won. Everyone knew the stylists had a crucial role to play.

‘You know that she and Finnick -’

‘Shush, Maggie. That was never going to happen. You know that Finnick can’t with anyone.’

I can’t help but ask. ‘She and Finnick were an item?’

‘Goodness no,’ says Ganymede, patting down my hair. ‘That never happened. There’s so much you have to learn.’

‘Finnick doesn’t have items,’ says Maggie, ‘Finnick has… escorts.’

‘Oh, honeyplum,’ sighs Ambrosia, ‘We’re going to have to teach you _everything_.’

They don’t say anything further, however, and I have to admit it’s left me curious. Now, I am dressed in a simple yet comfy pair of tight legged pants, and a turtle neck jumper. My hair has been blow dried to fall down my shoulders in soft waves.

‘We’re going for ‘relaxed’,’ Ambrosia had said, as she patted powder into my cheeks. ‘Just a subtle, natural look.’

I’ve never really worn much makeup before, other than the occasional touch of my mother’s lipstick. _I guess they’ll have me wearing it every day now._ I chew on a leg of chicken. Across the table from me Finnick tucks into a plate of salad, wearing a different dark blue button down shirt and his hair sticking up in slightly damp spikes. I smile to myself; it seems the prep team managed to corner him as well.

We all sit round a table, myself and Clyde, our mentors, as well as Aenon and Riley. The stylists have occupied a separate carriage.

‘Tell us about yourself, Annie,’ says Aenon Ballantine. ‘It’s a while since I’ve escorted a non-Career.’

I hastily swallow a mouthful and glance around the table, suddenly shy to speak. ‘Well, I’m from the quay,’ I say, and clear my throat, because my voice sounds scratchy again. ‘That’s where I live, I mean. In the town.’

I look down at my plate because I’m not really sure what to say, and I can feel Finnick’s gaze on me from across the table. ‘I have two younger brothers, Marcus and…Finn.’ I give a slightly awkward laugh. ‘Finn’s named after Finnick, actually.’ I glance up, and Finnick, whose eyes were curious, suddenly looks away. My stomach sinks at having embarrassed him.

‘Rather fitting, I suppose,’ Aenon muses. ‘A good omen.’

I’m glad one of us sees it that way.

 ‘I think that’s sweet,’ Riley smiles. Perhaps she’s not as bristly as her angular grey suit suggests.

‘There’s not really much more to say,’ I trail off, and fiddle with my napkin.

‘And how about you, Clyde?’ Finnick asks, stretching his arms back behind his head. ‘Where were you from before you became a Career?’

Clyde puts down his fork. ‘Actually, I used to live with my Mom, out in Bartlett. You know the village? It’s north of the main town, on the river estuary. I go see her sometimes. I don’t have any other family.’

‘And what do you enjoy doing?’ says Aenon. His small talk is slightly strained. ‘Do you have any hobbies?’

‘When you’re not learning how to kill people, he means,’ says Finnick. I look up in shock but there is no trace of sarcasm in his voice.

Clyde shrugs. ‘I like playing football. But being a Career has been my life. I train with a sword every day, and wrestle…’

‘And how about you, Annie?’ says Aenon.

For some reason I am blushing. ‘I swim.’

‘Well, that’s hardly surprising, now is it,’ says Shona with a slightly mocking smile, ‘You’re from District 4 after all.’

‘I suppose so,’ I say.

‘She’s failed to mention exactly _how_ good she is. When she was nine her brother hid himself in the nets and almost drowned out in the bay. Annie dived in faster than anyone and saved him.’

I stare at Finnick. He’s grinning at me. I had no idea he remembered that. And now _I’m_ the one who’s embarrassed.

‘Seems our non-Career has quite the hidden talent,’ says Shona in obvious surprise. I’m not offended, as I didn’t expect her to have a high opinion of me in the first place.

‘Anyone could have done it,’ I mumble.

‘No they couldn’t,’ Finnick snorts, ‘You were underwater for over a minute. He was completely caught up and they had cast him in over the side.’

Riley raises her eyebrows. ‘That’s actually impressive.’

Clyde’s lips are pursed. I realize I might have stolen his thunder.

‘I was just trying to help my brother,’ I say. I wish I didn’t feel the need to justify myself. I don’t know why Finnick decided to tell everyone this. I certainly didn’t _want_ him to tell them this. I’m shy enough as it is.

Finnick leans back in his chair, and gives me a self-satisfied smile.

I can’t meet his eyes, and I look back down at my meal.

***********************************

The sofa we sit on is wide and plush but I’m still not comfortable enough to relax into it. Clyde is to one side of me, Finnick leans on the back. Aenon and Shona sit in separate armchairs.

We’re watching the other tributes’ choosing ceremonies.

District 1’s boy, Halcyon Seacrest, is tiny, with a sharp, flashing grin. His partner, Victory Savera, is of south Asian descent, and shakes out her black hair with a smile of fierce triumph. Indigo Greenlaw of District 2 is tall and muscled; his partner Epiphany Deerlove has hair cropped short and a confident stride. The boy of District 3 is tall, auburn, the blonde girl long limbed and stunning.

I’ll be meeting them all soon. Too soon. I don’t know which will be worse: the strong and dangerous Careers I will have no chance against, or the terrified children I know I will be expected to hurt myself.

When I appear on the screen, I clench my fists into my thighs and force myself to watch. The camera picks up my movement and zooms in on my aborted attempt at fleeing just in time to see a white, panicked face, freckles standing out as though I’m ill. My expression when I’m on stage is no better, but I’m gratified that my trembling hands are not noticeable.

‘The entirety of the Capitol has seen you, Annie,’ says Finnick bluntly, ‘And they know that you tried to run. Your reaction has already affected how people perceive you.’

I swallow. ‘I messed up.’

‘You didn’t cry, which is a start.’

‘I still look terrified.’

Finnick narrows his eyes. ‘Crying admits weakness. It makes you a target.’ He sighs, and shifts his stance. ‘Everything you do from the moment your name was called adds up against you. It decides whether sponsors give you the time of day. Whether the other tributes think you’ll be an easy kill. It decides who will give up on you. And it decides how long you last before the Careers figure it’s time to take you down.’

‘For the moment, the Career tributes are obviously the ones to watch,’ Shona says. ‘But don’t write anyone off because they appear small, or weak. As far as you’re concerned, all the tributes are equally dangerous.’

5’s Thornborn Yule is rotund and stumbles on his way up to the stage. Clyde snorts. ‘Seriously?’

‘You’d also be wise,’ Finnick says slowly, ‘Not to write anyone off because of their behavior in the choosing ceremony.’

6’s girl is openly weeping, but has her head held high. The boy of 8 is young, too young, and bile rises in my throat. The boy of 9 is pulled forward in sullen tears. 10’s are twins -

‘Oh my god, the chances of that,’ Clyde breathes, sitting further forward in his chair.

Aenon snorts. ‘The chances indeed.’

We watch the rest of the recordings in silence. I take in no more names, and soon the faces onscreen begin to blur. And as the minutes tick by, the train rushes ever closer to the Capitol.

***********************************

I’ve seen the Capitol endlessly, of course: on the screens, and in adverts. But as the train races round a hill and out onto a wide bay, that doesn’t really prepare me for the soaring view of metal and glass, towering, sprawling and glinting in the sun, backed by distant mountains.

‘There’ll be journalists,’ Finnick says, as we stand side by side in the darkened carriage, the train slowing beneath us. Clyde and Shona will be exiting by a different door. ‘Don’t talk to them. Don’t even look at them for now.’

‘Do I smile?’ I ask. My heart is pounding. ‘Surely I should smile. For the photographs.’

‘No smiles for the moment,’ says Finnick thoughtfully. ‘They know you didn’t want to be chosen. You’re the martyr.’

‘I didn’t martyr myself for anyone,’ I say.

‘We’ll talk about this with Ophelia later,’ His eyes run over my face, calmly assessing, and his fingers brush at the shoulders of my top, tugging out a crease and smoothing it down, ‘Right now, you’re going to be pale, silent and brave. I want them to know that it’s costing you to be brave.’

‘I can do the pale and silent. I’m not so sure about the brave.’

Finnick gives a sharp, barking laugh, but I wasn’t joking.

‘Then I’ll go first,’ he says, with that half smile of his. ‘Warm them up for you.’ He gives me a wink, and I huff out a breath which is half anxiety, half exasperation.

In front of us, the doors hiss open. I know there’s a crowd outside from the sound and because Finnick’s face is suddenly illuminated by camera flashes.

‘Annie,’ Finnick’s green eyes are suddenly earnest, ‘You’ll be absolutely fine. Remember, I’ve never been a mentor before. So in a way I’m new to this too.’

I open my mouth, but before I have a chance to reply, he steps through onto the steps and saunters down onto the platform, hand raised in greeting. The crowd roars in appreciation. The Capitol’s favorite celebrity, returned home at last.

I am suddenly bereft, standing alone. I can’t go out there.

_But you have no choice, Annie,_ says the voice in my mind. _Are you going to be a coward again?_

I raise my head.

I step out onto the steps, down from the carriage, and immediately have to resist the urge to cover my eyes from the bursts of light. A hundred voices shout my name, yelling questions, attempting to reach out and touch me.

Finnick stands just below, hand outstretched to help me down the final step. But I walk past him onto the platform before I have entirely registered he’s there.

Back straight. Face high. Ignore everyone on either side of the barriers and keep walking. It’s a short passage across the platform and to the doors of a low, sleek electric track car. A suited man with a bald head opens the door to me and I slide inside.

Finnick has jogged to catch up with me and slips into the seat beside. As he shuts the door the noise cuts out and tinted windows dim the interior. I relax into the seat, and let my head fall back, exhaling.

‘How was I?’ I ask.

‘Very pale,’ says Finnick, ‘Possibly also brave. I was walking behind you so I couldn’t really tell, but you didn’t try to run away, so I guess it’s an improvement.’

I shake my head slightly because he almost manages to make me smile. The car pulls away.

***********************************

‘Welcome to your new home,’ says Aenon, strolling out through the elevator doors into District 4’s penthouse suite. I gaze around at the luxurious open plan living area. Floor to ceiling windows give an incredible view out over the city. Here we are in the heart of one of the wealthiest districts - the needling metal spires of new-wave architecture sit side by side with elegant, old stone buildings, exclusive apartment complexes and shopping centers interspersed with public parks. As far as I can see, skyscrapers break up the fading glow of the sunset, silhouetted against the dark backs of the mountains on the horizon.

Riley conducts us on a short tour of our living quarters; Clyde and I both have an entire corridor to ourselves with our mentors living in separate, adjacent complexes. All our meals will be prepared for us, of course, but there is also a communal kitchen area stocked with a thousand types of snacks, fruits, and cooling cabinets for various drinks. We have our own sauna, and on another level are two private gyms. ‘New this year,’ says Finnick, ‘So you get to train with your mentors in person. Aren’t you lucky.’

The penthouse takes up the entire top two floors of the building. I try not to gape. I try not to imagine how much it all costs. Since these are probably the last few days of our lives, we might as well live them out in style.

When we finish the tour and enter back into the main living space, two newcomers are there to greet us. There’s a man with long blonde hair and a perfect smile, and a tall, elegant woman in slim fitting pants and a long, flowing tunic who I instantly recognize as Ophelia Garnett.

‘Ah, Clyde and Annie,’ Aenon says, ‘May I present to you Ophelia Garnett and Jackamo Loveguard, your stylists.’

‘Finnick,’ says Ophelia, and walks, no, _sweeps_ forward, so she and Finnick can embrace.

‘It’s good to see you again,’ he says, as they pull apart.

‘It’s certainly been too long.’ I remember what Ambrosia said about there having been something between them. Ophelia turns towards me, gracious smile on her face.

‘Annie Cresta,’ she says, and she doesn’t speak loudly but I am captivated by her low, sweet voice. ‘Welcome to the Capitol.’ She clasps my hand in her long, smooth fingers. Her skin is the same color the terracotta vase in our seawards windowsill warms to on summer evenings. ‘Let’s go and see what we can do, shall we?’

She leads me back into my area of the living quarters, and through into a brightly lit dressing room which has half of its space given over to racks of clothing. Shimmering long dresses, thick hooded coats, jackets, shirts and trousers all hang above rows of enough shoes to fill an entire shop.

‘Is this all for me?’ I ask stupidly. ‘I’m only here for a few days.’

‘I had to be prepared,’ says Ophelia, ‘I had no idea who you’d be until this morning. Now, take off your clothes.’

‘All of them? Again?’

She smiles. ‘Don’t worry, you can keep your underclothes on; I only need your measurements. I have to ensure your costume is properly adjusted for the opening ceremony tomorrow.’

I nod and pull off my jumper, shivering in nervous anticipation at the mention of the ceremony. Ophelia walks around me, tape measure in hand. Ambrosia, who appears through a side door, taps the results into a datapad. The beads of her hair have changed color to a pale pink, though I’m not sure how.

‘What do you think of the Capitol so far, Annie?’ she gushes.

‘I haven’t really seen much of it,’ I say, ‘But it’s very pretty.’

‘Isn’t it just,’ Ambrosia sighs, ‘I just couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.’

Dusty streets, skies criss-crossed by power lines, and a sharp salt tang on the air. I swallow down the rising swell of memory.

‘Get started on those adjustments straight away,’ says Ophelia as I redress, and Ambrosia nods and disappears.

‘Now,’ says Ophelia, her gaze critical but not unkind, ‘We need to decide how we’re going to approach these next two weeks. Sit down,’ she gestures to a chair.

I sit in front of a mirror – with lights around it, of all things – and she spins me around to face her.

‘Soft lips, strong jaw. Oval face,’ she says, cupping my face in her hands. ‘You have lovely eyes, Annie.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, unsure how else to respond to the compliment. Then Ophelia produces a comb, two large hair slides and a pair of scissors. I watch my reflection in mild consternation as she takes inches from the bottom of my hair, heavy locks falling into my lap.

There’s a knock on the door.

‘Come in, Finnick,’ Ophelia says, without turning around.

Finnick enters, and stands by the door, arms folded, silently watching as Ophelia finishes the cut and brushes out my hair with a wooden backed brush. She wordlessly holds up a mirror so that I can see both the back of my head and the front, and I realize that I rather like it. My hair remains long, but now ends a few inches below my shoulders, making its natural waves more pronounced. The bottom has been layered, as well as shaped around my face, softening the line of my jaw.

Ophelia turns the chair back around to face her once more.

‘What’s the verdict?’ Finnick asks.

‘Sweet and vulnerable,’ says Ophelia thoughtfully, turning my face this way and that. ‘Finnick Odair’s very first mentee. The innocent girl trying to be brave. That’s what they’ve made of you so far, and they seem to like it. So we’re going to play it. We can play this well, as long as you’re up for doing a bit of acting, Annie.’

I nod, although I’m not really sure what she’s talking about.

‘Do what you have to do,’ Finnick says, and begins to pace up and down. ‘Presentation is everything.’

‘I taught you well,’ Ophelia muses with a smile.

‘You learn quickly when the alternative is dying,’ says Finnick, who doesn’t return the smile.

‘Normally, they want nothing better than a pretty girl who smiles,’ says Ophelia matter of factly. ‘The girls are always expected to smile. I’m sure you know how to smile.’

Of course I know how to smile. I haven’t smiled since the choosing ceremony, however.

She doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘Well, forget about that. We’re going to play things differently.’ She gestures for me to rise and begins to walk around me in a circle. I turn my head to follow her.

‘I want you to be cool, composed. Aloof but not unfriendly. Be sparing with your smiles. Bravely resigned to your fate but not afraid to fight if you have to. I take it you have a younger brother?’

‘Two.’

‘The younger is only three,’ Finnick says.

‘Perfect,’ says Ophelia. ‘Don’t let them forget it.’

‘I have… his little doll,’ I say, ‘He gave it to me before I left.’

‘I want you to take that mascot to every interview you have.’

‘Her brother’s called Finn, by the way,’ Finnick adds. ‘They named him after me.’

A fact of which I am now acutely embarrassed.

‘And yet another stroke for Finnick Odair’s ego,’ says Ophelia dryly, ‘Now he knows that he won’t let you forget it.’

‘Stop making me out to be so conceited,’ says Finnick, tone mock-offended.

‘I’m not making you out to be anything,’ says Ophelia, ‘I’m merely warning poor Annie about what she’s in for having you as a mentor. In fact,’ she clicks her fingers, ‘In this instance it may help us. If we can build a friendly rapport between you that would be something people will want to see.’

Finnick huffs out a laugh. ‘Let’s not overwork that, please. Tribute-mentor relationships can get creepy.’

My eyes dart between them.

‘What we’re going to have to ensure is that Finnick doesn’t steal your limelight,’ Ophelia continues. ‘You already managed to help us along when you ignored his arm to help you down from the train carriage earlier.’ She gives Finnick a look. ‘It’s an unusual girl that ignores his flirting, and Ambrosia tells me it’s already got people buzzing. Good move.’

I frown, because it wasn’t like that at all. It hadn’t even occurred to me.

‘Don’t listen to Ophelia,’ Finnick says in a stage whisper, ‘She’s trying to drive a wedge between us.’

‘Be sensible, Finnick,’ Ophelia says coldly. ‘And if you can’t be sensible, be quiet.’ She places her hands on my shoulders. ‘Annie, I have three words for you. Strong, calm and poised. Whenever you go out in public, I want you to repeat them to yourself in your head. You’re going to project this image until you believe it, and everyone else believes in it too.’

I nod. _Strong, calm and poised._ This is me now. The identity they’re going to invent. Maybe a week ago it would have been hard to let go of the part of me that laughs just at the sight of the sea, that skips along the quay like I’m still eleven.

 But that was all before this morning. I am a tribute now, and I left the old Annie behind when I stepped onto that train.

***********************************

I don’t want to go to bed, although it’s getting late. Instead I wander through the darkened rooms of our apartment and trail my hand over the walls and furniture, Shelleysticks clenched in my other fist. My chest aches and I don’t know what’s making it worse, the homesickness or the knowledge that in just under a fortnight everything will be over.

_Annie-can’t-kill._

I need to live each day while I can.

I turn down a corridor and there is Finnick, just returning from the communal kitchen and unscrewing a bottle of juice. He is also naked from the waist upwards, small towel hung over one shoulder and damp hair mussed from a shower.

I hope I’m not blushing. I am more or less a grown woman, after all. But it is slightly unexpected. The muscles of his chest and shoulders are lean and tanned. I catch my eyes before they start to slip down his abdomen to where he’s wearing his pajama pants slung low on his hips.

‘Annie,’ he says. ‘You should try and get some sleep. Not to sound patronizing, but you’re going to need it.’

‘If I thought I could, I would,’ I say simply.

‘Fair enough,’ he says, and gives his hair another rub with the towel. ‘Your brother’s doll again?’ he inclines his head at my hand. I nod.

‘Don’t let go of it,’ says Finnick, absentmindedly touching the leather thong at his neck. ‘You’re going to want something to remind you of home.’

‘Why did you choose me?’ I ask him suddenly.

Finnick doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Because of all the Victors back home, I’m the one who’s going to keep you alive.’

I breathe out heavily.

‘And I _am_ going to keep you alive,’ he adds. ‘I was younger than you when I made it through the Games. The first thing you’re going to have to learn to do is trust me.’

‘That might be difficult,’ I say slowly.

‘Because you don’t know me?’ he asks, and steps forward. ‘Or because I’m a Victor? Because I’m _Finnick Odair?_ ’ His fingers outline his name in speech marks.

 I swallow. ‘Both.’

‘You’re going to have to move past that, since to be honest Annie, becoming a Victor is the only career option you’ve got left to you right now.’

I look down at my hands. _You know you have no chance._ ‘I’m not really sure winning is an option for me.’

Then, before I can stop myself- ‘I can’t kill anyone,’ I blurt. ‘I know I can’t. I can’t even fish without feeling awful - I’m the worst person they could possibly have chosen.’

‘I’m sorry, Annie,’ his eyes are sincere but uncompromising. ‘Being gentle isn’t going to do you any good. You’re going to have to lock that part of yourself away.’

I blink quickly because my eyes are tearing up involuntarily. ‘I know. I know. And I can’t. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

‘You’re going to listen to me, for a start,’ Finnick says. ‘And I’m telling you first off not to let them see you cry.’

I nod, and brush angrily at my eyes with the back of my hand. God, I’m so stupid.

‘Hey,’ says Finnick after a moment, and reaches out to place a hand on my arm. ‘It’s okay.’

I give a laugh that comes out more as a sob.

‘You’re right; I’m lying,’ he says, ‘It’s not okay. It’s shit. Come here.’

He pulls me into him and wraps both his arms around me, my face pressed into the crook of his shoulder. I breathe in the scent of his hair, and link my arms around his back. His skin is warm.

These arms have broken necks. I start to shiver, because I’m not sure what it is I’m afraid of any more.

‘It isn’t going to get any easier,’ Finnick says softly. ‘But if you can trust me, it’ll feel as though it is.’

I nod, breathing starting to slow. Finnick pulls away. He raises his eyebrows. ‘You really need to go and get some sleep. Goodnight, Annie.’

‘Goodnight,’ I murmur as Finnick saunters back down the corridor, tilting back his head to take a long drink from the bottle. I don’t move but instead stand watching him, rubbing my hands over my shoulders, which are suddenly cold.

Later, in my room, I stand in front of the large window looking out over the city. The dark plain below is illuminated by a thousand different lights before it suddenly cuts out at the still, smooth black of the bay. Life in the Capitol is so gratuitous that no-one even thinks to turn out their lights and save electricity. There’s a remote control lying by my bedside table and as I press a button the glass crystallizes into a new image, the city fading away. Now I’m gazing out into a forest so real I can almost feel my feet sink into leaves and moss. I flick through the settings until I find one which shows the sea at sunset. The soft sound of surf dragging on sand comes over the speakers.

With a sigh, I push my slippers from my feet, and slide between the sheets of my bed.

Maybe last year’s tribute, Emilia Irvin, stayed in this same room. Or Mariana Glendower, tribute for the 65th Hunger Games.

Mariana Glendower, who died gasping on her own blood, a trident through her neck.

I close my eyes and sink back into the pillows, but the sound of waves won’t help me sleep tonight.

***********************************

 ‘You both look fantastic,’ says Jackamo Loveguard, ‘If I do say so myself. Though of course it was a joint effort.’

We are minutes before the start of the tribute parade. Clyde and I stand beside the back of a bronze chariot on vast spoked wheels, the two horses attached shaking their heads and whinnying to be off. We each wear a skin tight, high necked bodysuit of a bluish silver. Upon our heads sit silver helmets which sweep forward and down over the bridge of the nose, and at the sides curve round to cover a slice of our cheekbones and chin. Great sheets of silver in the shape of scales line the sides of the helmet and jut out from the back, like a dragon ruffling its wings, like a fish lifting its fins to the air. Similar scales branch out in spiked fins from our shoulders, then run in a ridge down the back of our high silver boots. There are silver cuffs at our arms, and the helmets are subtly different in design, making our individual costumes unique. My hair flows underneath onto my shoulders.

District 4: the hub of Panem’s fishing industry. In case it wasn’t obvious.

Ophelia says nothing, but instead appraises us and gives a slow nod of her head. ‘You’ll do.’

This is the first time I’ve had an opportunity to see the other tributes up close. In front of us are the two District 3 tributes, both of them Careers, and dressed in costumes clearly designed around the theme of electrical wiring. They are engaged in deep discussion with their mentors. The District 2 boy turns our way, arms crossed and gaze openly hostile. I hold his dark eyes for a moment, but then I have to look away. The boy and girl from District 1 – Halcyon and Victory - wander down the line, slowly, casually, and occasionally stepping forward to speak to another tribute.

_The Games don’t start in the Arena_ , my voice reminds me. _The Games have already begun._

‘Do you attach yourself to power, or do you avoid it?’ Finnick had said to me this morning. ‘That all depends on exactly how you think you’re going to stay alive. It can work, building alliances. As long as you remember that all alliances are there to be broken, as soon as the greater threat is gone. Or sooner, if you are no longer useful.’

I cannot bring myself to talk to the other tributes.

‘Four,’ a voice cuts through my thoughts, and it’s 1’s girl, dark hair piled high under a headdress made of both baubles and feathers. I start slightly. ‘Still feel like running away?’

Clyde looks at me expectantly. My throat is dry.

‘There’s not really anywhere to run,’ I say slowly, voice quieter than I’d like, ‘But if there were, I would probably give escaping a go.’

To my amazement her face breaks out in a smile, although it’s not a nice smile. But almost immediately she loses interest and carries on further down the line. ‘I’ll look forward to fighting you, big man,’ she says casually at Clyde over her shoulder.

‘Who would have thought it,’ says Clyde dryly, ‘The little mouse has a backbone.’

Before I can work out how to object to being called a mouse, a blast comes over the speakers. It’s time to get on board, and I clamber onto the back of our chariot as gracefully as I can manage.

 ‘Remember what we talked about last night,’ Ophelia says.

‘Make the District proud,’ says Aenon.

Finnick stands to the side, arms folded, and he inclines his head towards us. I face forward and feel a rush of adrenaline as to either side of the column of chariots the preparatory teams fall back, and the vast metal doors in front of us begin to open. Immediately I’m hit by the glare of floodlights and the roar of a crowd of six hundred thousand people.

Our chariot starts to move and foolishly, I worry that I’m going to fall. But the horses are well trained and it’s smoother than I thought it would be as we glide forward towards the light.

The horses’ hooves beat faster, and then we’re racing out into the open air and a stadium so vast I can barely see the other end. The tributes in the chariot ahead wave to the sea of people but I keep looking resolutely ahead, hands clenched on the front of the chariot.

‘For District 4, Clyde Laiken and Annie Cresta!’ booms a voice over the speakers, and if it’s possible the roar of the crowd gets louder. The voice calls out again and again as one by one the chariots behind us exit the depot.

We’re moving fast enough that the air is cold as it rushes through my helmet. _Strong, calm and poised._ Our faces are projected onto huge screens on either side of the stadium, helmets flashing blue and silver in the light, our costumes smooth as water. Clyde is breathing hard with exhilaration; the atmosphere is intoxicating. _Strong._ But I cannot forget why it is we’re here and instead of excitement I feel my gorge rise. _Calm._ I clench my jaw so they cannot see what I’m feeling. _Poised._

It’s taken an age, but now we’re approaching the end of the stadium and the presidential stand. The chariot sweeps round in an arc past the front and I gaze up at the towering row of seating. Then, as the chariot comes to a stop, I see the bearded figure in the presidential box. But he’s too small. Too insignificant, against the vast rising wings behind him, the harsh glint of gold, the eagle of Panem.

I open my mouth, as though I am about to call out. What for, I do not know. The President cannot give us a pardon. Not now. Even the President is powerless against the Games.

The eagle’s eyes burn in the sun . _One nation._ Sending us to our deaths.

***********************************

‘You’re here for ten days,’ says Finnick, ‘And I’m going to be honest; there’s only so much I can teach you in that time.’

We’re standing in the center of one of the private gyms beside a small mat, walls lined with all manner of apparatus, equipment and weapons. I’m wearing a dark grey and white patterned body suit which all the tributes have been issued with, which clings to me like a wetsuit. Finnick is in jogging bottoms and a tight fitting t-shirt, still wearing his necklace.

He paces slowly in front of me, as though it’s uncomfortable for him to stand still. ‘There’s certainly no way I can teach you to become proficient in handling any sort of weapons.’ He turns to me, ‘I’m assuming you’ve never handled any weapons.’

‘But for a knife to gut fish, no,’ I say, ‘And…’ for some reason I don’t want to say it, ‘To catch fish, we used to practice with a trident sometimes. It’s not particularly efficient. Only for show.’

_And I don’t want to learn to use a weapon_. _Because there’s no-one I would ever want to use it on._

Finnick inclines his head. ‘That’s what I thought. So instead we’re going to focus on basic survival, self-defense, and getting you used to handling a few different weapons. First things first – and this sounds stupid, but I know mentors who’ve forgotten to check and it’s cost their tributes their lives – I’m assuming you can light a fire.’

I almost snort. Most houses in District 4 have gas fires, but I didn’t grow up in the Capitol. ‘Yes.’

‘You can fish. Set up lines and hooks.’

‘Of course.’

‘Have you ever done any other hunting, or trapping?’

‘No, but I can recognize quite a lot of plants,’ I say. ‘At least, enough that if there’s flora I won’t starve.’

‘Thank god,’ Finnick suddenly gives me a grin, ‘Otherwise we’d be starting entirely from scratch. Although I am going to warn you right now that in most situations you’re not going to want to use fire, as it obviously gives away your whereabouts.’

I nod; that seems simple enough.

‘And there’s no guarantee that there will be vegetation or hunting opportunities, though from experience I’d say we can safely bet on it. The Games aren’t as fun when the tributes are weak from starvation. ’

I swallow. I remember the 54th Hunger Games – a rocky, barren environment devoid of any edible plant life which drove one of the tributes to cannibalism. The Gamemakers had him taken down.

‘And obviously we have no idea what the Arena’s going to be like,’ Finnick’s pacing again, ‘I was lucky to get a terrain with so much water. If I hadn’t been so lucky I probably wouldn’t have won,’ he adds darkly. ‘I’ll never forget how grateful I was when I came up into my pod and saw the shore we were standing on.’

In my mind’s eye, I see him in the recording our District have played over and over. Young but already tall, well on his way to becoming a man. Green eyes bright as the klaxon sounds and he dives smoothly off his platform, cutting through the water towards the cornucopia before some of the other tributes have even moved.

‘But you could just as easily get desert, or tundra, rainforest,’ Finnick continues, ‘And there is no way I can prepare you for all of those scenarios. So you’re just going to have to be as resourceful as you can, and make do.’

‘What about the cornucopia?’ I ask.

‘You won’t be able to get to it without a bloody fight,’ says Finnick, ‘For you I’d say it’s certainly going to be best not to risk it. As soon as the whistle goes, run as fast as you can in the opposite direction. There are three things you need to survive. Shelter, water, food. In that order. And they come before everything else.’

I nod once more. I’m going to be faced with this soon, far too soon. My heart beats slightly faster.

‘Alright,’ says Finnick, ‘Now we’ve got that out of the way we’re going to get on to some simple self-defense. Come stand in front of me.’

I move to do as he says; now that I’m so close I find it harder to keep his gaze. It’s his eyes again, for some reason if I look for more than a second I find myself staring.

‘Never forget that every opponent is going to be coming in for the kill,’ he says, ‘And you need to fight back to kill them as well. I know you don’t think you can,’ he adds, as I pull a face, ‘But believe me, when someone’s coming at your face intending to murder you, violence suddenly becomes a lot more natural.’

That’s not something I want to think about, ever, but it’s going to be my reality very soon. I can either deny it, or I can accept it and make the best of what’s going to happen to me.

‘Ophelia gave you three words to remember,’ Finnick says, ‘Well; I’m going to give you three more. Preservation – your own safety always comes first. Domination – you need to find ways to get power over the other tributes. And finally, exploitation. Once you have them where you want them, you use them, and you end them.’

‘Preservation, domination, exploitation,’ I echo him obediently. It’s not just my own chance at survival I’m worried about here, I realize. There’s something else: I don’t want to let Finnick down. I want his approval.

‘For the next couple of hours we’re going to concentrate on hand to hand self-defense,’ says Finnick, adjusting his stance in front of me, ‘The good thing about the techniques I’m going to show you is that it doesn’t matter how strong your opponent is, they’ll still be effective. But realistically, you’re not going to be getting into many situations where neither of you has a weapon.’

It’s easy to forget how young he is, because he acts so mature, so assured. And he’s certainly seen more violence than any adult would wish to in their lives. I puff out a breath and give my hands and arms a shake, because I’m nervous.

‘And by the way,’ Finnick adds after a moment, ‘You can talk back to me. You don’t just have to accept everything I say without question. Despite what they’ve probably been telling you down in District 4, I’m not actually a god.’

I don’t really have a reply to that.

‘And yet another beautiful slice of wit goes to waste,’ Finnick sighs. ‘Not much of a talker, are you.’

‘I do talk,’ I reply. _I used to talk to everyone. I used to smile at them too._ ‘Just not to strangers.’

‘We’ve been cohabiting for two days now, and you consider me a stranger. Well,’ Finnick pauses, ‘Miss Annabel Cresta, I’m deeply offended.’

 ‘My name’s not Annabel.’

‘It’s not?’ he turns to me, and his eyes are wide in mock surprise, ‘I’m so sorry to have made the assumption, it’s just that we’ve never been formally introduced. Me being a total stranger, after all.’

Because I know he’s doing it for my benefit, something about his dreadful humor smooths the edges of the jagged lump of fear within me, or at least makes it easier to pretend it’s not there. My lips tug into a small smile, and I hold out my hand as though I’m a Capitol debutante. ‘Well, Mr Odair, since you are so insistent. My name is Annie Cresta, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

‘The pleasure is all mine,’ he says, voice low, and gently raises my hand to his lips, not breaking eye contact the entire time. I resist the urge to pull my hand back.

Finnick doesn’t let go of my hand, but instead adjusts my fingers so that they lie together, palm flat. ‘I’m going to move towards you right now, with my neck exposed. I want you to try and jab me right...here.’ He maneuvers my hand so that the tips of his fingers are just resting against his jugular. I’m slightly thrown off by the smooth change back to the topic at hand.

‘It’s incredibly uncomfortable and will give you a few moments to take the advantage if you get caught off guard during an attack. Otherwise go for the eyes and crotch.’ He raises his hand and bounces his own fingers off the front of my neck. I jerk back, fighting down my gag reflex. ‘See?’ Finnick smiles. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

He moves backwards and then without warning lunges towards me. I’m completely caught off guard and before I know it his hands are on my neck.

‘Try again,’ he says simply, moving back before I’ve even registered what’s happened. I ready myself, but he waits. What is he playing at? Then he’s moving and I whip my arm out in front of me, fingers outstretched. Finnick stops, paused on the balls of his feet, neck millimetres from the ends of my fingers. His whole body thrums like a live wire.

‘Better,’ he says, with a quick smile. ‘And again.’

We do this three times more, I stop him twice, and I feel completely on edge. He’s getting faster as well. Then we try again. My arm goes up, expecting his attack, but then he swipes his other arm around to knock mine out of the way. I lean into his attack and smack my other hand forward and over his arm, and he stops once again just as my fingernails are about to graze his skin.

‘You’re fast,’ says Finnick, and I feel a small prick of pride, ‘But you’re going to have to be faster.’

Without warning he’s on me again, from an angle I wasn’t expecting, and is swiping my legs from under me so that I go crashing down backwards onto the mat.

 ‘Never assume that the attack will come from the same direction it has before,’ he says, ‘Expect everything. Get on up, and let’s keep going.’

God help me if Finnick and I had competed in the same Hunger Games.

Trying to hide my winded gasps for breath, I roll over and push myself back to my feet. This is going to be a long day.

 

***********************************

It’s the morning of our second full day in the Capitol when Clyde and I step through the doors into the tributes’ communal gym. I resist the urge to smooth back my hair; when Ambrosia caught sight of me she insisted I wear my bangs down instead of pinned back as I had for training yesterday.

‘Image is everything, honeyplum,’ she had said, faffing with a comb as I tried to protest that it would go sweaty and get in my eyes. ‘The others will want get a good look at you for the first time, and we need to have you at your best.’

No, what I _need_ is to not appear weak and helpless, but what are the chances of that?

Ambrosia’s wrong though, because few of the tributes give us more than a cursory glance as we enter the large, dark-walled hall. I guess they saw all they needed to when watching playbacks of the choosing ceremony. Most of the tributes are already here. Two boys spar unarmed; one is tall, olive skinned, powerful blows coming thick and fast. Yet his tiny, grinning companion darts out of reach of the blows, even breaking under the other’s guard to lay down his own sharp strikes. They are so smooth, so precise; they can only be Halcyon and Indigo of 1 and 2.

The stocky boy from District 6 pauses to look Clyde up and down, short sword gripped in one hand. Returning his gaze, Clyde slowly picks up a machete, spinning it deftly before letting it settle into his grasp.  Clyde raises his eyebrows at 6, who makes a jerking motion with his head. The two of them head off towards one of the raised sparring platforms.

_Typical man communication,_ sighs the voice in my head, and to my surprise it sounds a little bit like Finnick today.

There’s a ridiculous array of weapons stacked against the walls: sleek metal bows, wickedly curved knives, daggers so long they’re more like swords, axes and even blow darts. A number of stations cover every survival orientated activity I can think of from fishing to camouflage painting. I feel a small flash of relief that not everything here revolves around strength and fighting ability. Tying fish hooks is actually something I can do.

I walk with as much authority as I can muster over to the table of fishing equipment and pick up a hook at random. My fingers rub over it, thoughtless for a moment before I drag myself back to the present.

_Focus on the training, Annie._

Who bought the equipment that’s used here? It’s the worst made fishhook I’ve seen in years. Any child in District 4 would be embarrassed to catch fish with something made like this. I give a small huff of amusement. Guess the Capitol aren’t as brilliant as they’d like to think after all.

I fiddle absentmindedly with a bit of twine, but I’m not going to learn anything here. Instead, as my fingers tie knots out of muscle memory, I peer surreptitiously around at the other tributes, trying to commit their faces to memory.

That’s 12’s boy, Kayn Staw, arms wiry and nose bent from an old break, testing a mace and flail in his grip before experimentally whirling it around his head. A curvy ginger takes shots at a punching bag with little accuracy but lots of gusto, cheeks reddening rapidly from her exertion – that must be Fannia Elestren of District 6. Trellis Lawson of 12 builds a simulated fire at a holographic station as Thorborn of 5 hovers by the wall, chubby face miserable. Epiphany Deerlove of 2 is sapling slim with high cheekbones and a choppy brown bob. She kicks a leg idly as she runs a whetting stone down a hooked blade, regarding the rest of the room with her slender-eyed gaze. I duck my head before our eyes meet.

Tall, auburn haired Iberis Kincardine of 3 climbs a wall like a spider and pulls himself through a series of bars attached to the ceiling. Quiver Starne of 5 is young with a mop of black curls, but manages to draw back a bow almost as long as she. The girl from 7 has hard eyes and arms sleek with muscle, pounding a target to pulp and then spinning into a roundhouse kick. Cashmere Wisehart of 3 looks like a supermodel, blonde waves bouncing from her tight ponytail as she throws a spear clean across the length of the room. It has barely trembled in its target for a moment before there is a patter like the sound of rain and the spear is surrounded by a clutch of tiny throwing stars. Their source is Victory of 1. She raises her eyebrow at Cashmere and smirks, before performing an elegant back flip down from the platform on which she stands.

Two slim figures spin on another platform, movements like a dance, their steps so fast they almost blur into one another. They are impeccably matched; there’s a crack as their staffs meet in the middle and in that momentary pause they are one and the same, Juno and Jupiter, the thin faced twins. Then they whirl away from each other and the dance begins again.

God.

_As if you ever stood a chance,_ says my voice. At least it is back to its normal condescending self.

I blink angrily at the tell-tale prick of tears. Now is _not_ the time. While I’m here, I might at least try and do something useful. I let the twine fall from my fingers and walk by the other stations in case they have anything to offer. A computer bank displays a series of tests involving reaction time and recognition of flora and fauna, and I run one of the simulations testing speed at identifying poisonous plants and fungi. My fingers are slow and my time is bad, but I surprise myself by correctly identifying over half. Overall I perform rather well.

I’m about to press the button to rerun the programme when my voice whispers, _Too well._

I reassess my score. I am unfamiliar with forest fauna of the kind I know is native to many of the northern districts. I know there are many types of poisonous fungi I’ve never heard of, deadly berries and flowers which don’t grow far south enough for me to be familiar with.  And yet I performed well… because the plants in the test were largely native to District 4.

_That can’t be right._

I look around me once more. There is the table with the fishhooks. On a rack on my other side stand a row of spearing hooks just like the kind my father uses for larger catch. I turn again to where Trellis coaxes flames from her holographic fire – the kindling she is laying down is seaweed.

Perhaps I’m imagining it. It’s understated, to be sure. But there’s a recurring pattern, a theme running through all of the equipment and training possibilities in this gym.

_The sea._

***********************************

Finnick shakes his head.  ‘Don’t assume anything. It could just as well be a bluff.’

‘But why would the Gamemakers bluff?’ Clyde and I have joined our mentors for lunch, and I have told Finnick of suspicions about this year’s Arena.

‘Why else?’ Finnick butters a thick slice of bread. ‘To see who’s clever enough to notice, and who’s not clever enough to ignore it. To make things more interesting. To add extra _entertainment.’_ He rips his slice of bread in to. ‘And next time Annie, I would consider refraining from spilling your bright ideas around other tributes. You’re not winning this as a team.’

‘I haven’t got a problem if she wants to tell me stuff,’ says Clyde with a grin, ‘Thanks for the heads up, Annie. You share your information with me any time.’

I look down at my food, chastened.

‘Actually, there was something else,’ Clyde says, ‘And I’m only sharing this because any idiot would have noticed. Some of the tributes can fight.’

Shona snorts as she slices up a sausage roll. ‘What were you expecting, Clyde?’

‘I mean, _really_ fight.’ Clyde says meaningfully. ‘Ones that shouldn’t be able to fight.’

There’s a pause. Shona’s eyes flicker to Finnick.

‘It’s getting worse,’ he says. ‘We knew it was getting worse.’

‘What’s getting worse?’ I ask.

Finnick sighs and drops his napkin. ‘There are some poorer Districts who’ve had a little too much of losing.’

The back of my neck prickles. ‘They’re training Careers,’ I breathe. ‘But that’s illegal.’

It’s Clyde’s turn to snort, and Shona raises an eyebrow. ‘Please, Annie. You really think Mayor Brockhurst is the only one to have started building his little training schools before the district had been given Career dispensation?

‘But those other districts,’ I frown, ‘They’re… This is District 7 we’re talking about. Even District 10. How do they afford it?’

Shona shrugs. ‘District government can always afford more than it wants you to think.’

 ‘That’s _wrong_.’

‘Think of it this way,’ Clyde says. ‘They’re protecting their people by sending in the ones with a chance.’

Everyone knows that in 11 and 12, people starve when there’s been a bad winter. The thought that their magistrates might be spending their money bringing up a few children for war - I shake my head. ‘It’s still wrong.’

‘Welcome to politics,’ says Shona, without a trace of irony. Finnick pushes his chair back from the table, and as I catch his gaze in consternation, there’s a sadness to the warmth of his sea green eyes.

‘Welcome to the Capitol, Annie,’ he says flatly. As he walks by me to leave, his hand lingers for an instant on my shoulder.

***********************************

By the end the day, Finnick has shown me how to target other sensitive areas of the body, how to use the momentum of a punch against an attacker, and how to take your opponent with you if you get tackled to the floor. The rest of my lesson with him consisted of attempts to build up my fitness – namely, running repeated laps around the hall.

‘Today wasn’t bad,’ says Finnick, as we head back up into the penthouse for dinner after a quick shower. After my two sessions – in the communal gym this morning, and with Finnick this afternoon - I’m exhausted and sweating freely. Yet to my surprise, I’m actually enjoying myself. Finnick is light on his feet, and the physical jabs he makes at me are interspersed with verbal quips I smile at despite myself.

It’s not just me who’s burning with physical exertion. Finnick is breathing hard and his t-shirt is beginning to cling to him in slightly distracting ways.

‘Tomorrow we’ll take a look at weapons,’ He says. ‘You’ll be training with the other tributes every other morning, and we need to prepare for your presentation.’

I hide a grimace, because while we’d been fighting hand to hand I’d almost been able to pretend that this was all for fun. I say almost, because Finnick has been making sure I never really forget.

Aenon meets us at the door of the dining room. ‘Remember that you both need to get ready for your sponsor evening soon – there will be a car waiting to collect you at eighteen hundred hours precisely.’

‘Sponsor evening?’ Clyde asks, as I slide into a chair at the table. My mouth waters at the elegant spread; the day has left me absolutely ravenous.

Riley Sepulchre has datapad in hand, as ever. ‘Finnick and I have organized a joint drinks and dinner evening in conjunction with the District 7 team, and a number of Capitol high flyers have been invited. It’ll be an invaluable opportunity for you to make good impressions on potential sponsors.’

‘You’re going to have to talk to strangers, Annie,’ Finnick says breezily. I look up mid mouthful because I’m not sure if he’s teasing.

‘To be serious,’ says Aenon, ‘This evening is going to be absolutely crucial. Among the guests we have some of the Capitol’s most esteemed citizens. Miss Sepulchre has drawn up fact files of all of them which I expect you to familiarise yourselves with before this evening.’

‘I suppose Miss Mason will be attending?’ Shona asked. ‘I hear she’s mentoring this year.’

‘Johanna Mason?’ Clyde asks. He seems impressed.

 ‘Of course Johanna will be there,’ says Finnick, and gives me a smile out of the corner of his eye, ‘And actually I can’t wait for Annie and Clyde to meet her.’

Immediately, in my mind’s eye, I am watching the 68th Hunger Games. I remember the lithe young girl from District 7, how her small, innocent figure reminded me a little too much of myself. I remember clutching my hands to my face as the group of Careers bore down on her badly chosen hiding place and chased her into the open. And I remember how as she turned around to face them, she threw off her timid façade, swung down her axe, and became a cold blooded murderer. She was grinning when she won, with other people’s blood splattered across her face, and barely seventeen.

_Just a little younger than you now, Annie._

I can hardly think of a Victor who horrifies me more. I push my plate away because I am no longer hungry.

‘Eat,’ says Finnick seriously, ‘We’re going to have to build up your strength. You’re going to be constantly on the move. And you need to be strong enough to fight for your life at every moment.’

I know he is right, and I pull my plate back towards me. But no matter what I eat, it isn’t going to sate the slow, slick dread in my stomach.

 

***********************************

 ‘From the moment you enter Capitol society, people are going to throw themselves at you. Some will be potential sponsors. Some will be working for other Districts, scouting out the opposition. Many will be sycophants.’

Our limousine glides smoothly through the streets to the venue of tonight’s engagement. Ophelia has curled my hair and piled it onto my head. My cocktail dress is shimmering gauze over the shoulders, blue eye shadow swept across my lids, and I shift slightly uncomfortably in the tight silk of my skirt. In his tuxedo Finnick borders on ridiculously attractive, but I manage to focus on his words.

‘You need to work out which connections you can use, which to discard. Make them work to get you, then make them work for you. I did that, and I won.’

I stifle a bizarre, nervous laugh. This is not the Finnick of earlier today. This is Finnick of the Victory banners, eyes bright and cool as steel. This Finnick did not need to scout out sponsors – they came flocking to his door, and his mentor sorted through them at leisure. There will be no expensive gifts headed my way in the Arena, and I resist the urge to shake my head at the list of guests on the datapad Aenon has given me.

Maximill Waystrike, mining oligarch. Constance Auraelias, vice president of the Capitol banking commission. Arch Mountainbloom, lady chief justice. Shine Oakenhome, an actor whose perfect white smile I recognize from several popular films. The list goes on.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ says Finnick, and gently pulls the datapad from my grasp, ‘Much better to offer welcoming conversation than to have their lives memorized.’ He snorts. ‘I’m sure Maximill will delight in explaining the delights of his wastrel youth to you at length.’

I nod, and look out at the bright lights of the city streaking by. When the car arrives and we step onto the sidewalk, there’s a light rain falling. We are ushered into a grand entrance lobby, and then take an elevator upwards. Finnick tilts his head to the ceiling, humming faintly to the musak, the sharp cut of his jaw reflected a thousand times into the darkening mirrors either side of us.

‘You’re just on time,’ says Aenon, as the doors open. ‘District 7 haven’t arrived yet, and we need you to introduce Miss Cresta and Mr Laiken.’

Behind him, the sight of Shona in a skirt is almost surprising. Clyde’s suit is deep blue.

‘Typical Jo,’ says Finnick, ‘Annie, Clyde, wait here for a moment.’

He holds an arm out to Shona, and a valet opens two double doors, and a room awash with laughter quietens to a hush. Finnick strides forward onto a dais, and taps at a microphone.

‘Friends,’ says Finnick, as Clyde and I remain stood in the shadow of the corridor. ‘Welcome. Shona and I would like to thank you all.’ He clears his throat exaggeratedly. Something about his expression, stance has changed. ‘Some of you may be wondering why we’ve gathered you here tonight.’ There’s a chorus of chuckling. ‘That reason is of course to celebrate the talent, and dare I say _beauty,_ of some of this year’s tributes – since they come from my District, and we only pick the attractive ones.’

The party laughs again amicably, and I catch a glimpse of Clyde’s white smile. Finnick gives the audience a wink, lips curving into a slow smile. This is not the Finnick who is training me, it’s the Finnick Odair from the scandalous holomag articles and the Victory banners in the town square. I look down at my hands, the hot flush of embarrassment prickling at my cheeks.

‘Although I’m loathe to give up the spotlight, the lovely Miss Mason has deigned to keep us all waiting, and so with no further ado I’d like you all to meet the real stars of tonight’s proceedings.’ He lowers his voice to a stage whisper, ‘By which I mean, pledge your money on our two first!’

Laughter once again, and Finnick holds out a hand in a sweeping gesture. ‘Please welcome the tributes of District 4, Annie Cresta and Clyde Laiken.’

‘Take his arm,’ Aenon hisses, and makes little shooing motions with his hands. Clyde and I walk forward into the room. Guests mill between small round tables and waiters holding trays of canapés, perfect faces, clapping daintily. Each of these people has the power to save my life, and any one of them could end it.

Finnick clambers casually down from the platform, still joking and laughing as though he is one of them. But of course he is, and I’m disgusted with myself for having forgotten that. This smooth, untouchable Finnick is just as much a part of who he is - if not more - than the Finnick who has befriended me these past few days. I have mistaken that Finnick to represent the whole.

_You’re a fool, Annie Cresta._

‘Miss Cresta, Mr Laiken,’ says a silver haired politician, ‘Dash Sackacha. It’s enchanting to meet you both.’ He kisses my hand, but then pulls Clyde aside to ask him a question about his Career training, and I am alone, my throat dry, surrounded by the chattering peacocks of the Capitol’s tallest spires.

‘I hear you and Finnick both come from the same poor little area of your District,’ says a woman with matching yellow eyes and hair. ‘How positively _provincial._ ’

‘We do find people of your kind ever so inspiring,’ adds her emerald haired companion, tugging at the edge of his bowtie.

‘My dear!’ They are both whisked aside by a larger lady with a bouffant do, blue painted lips in a wide smile. ‘I hear you’ve managed to bag Ophelia Garnett as your stylist. My my, you lucky girl.’

‘Miss Palation,’ Finnick’s voice is warm as he appears at my side, ‘I’m so glad you could make it. Miss Trudy Palation, please let me introduce you to Annie Cresta, my tribute.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ I force myself to shake her puffy hand. I vaguely recall seeing Trudy Palation on the list, the financial director of Panem Media.

‘Trudy’s a bit of an uber-fan of the Games, aren’t you Trudy?’ says Finnick. His smile is easy, natural.

‘Who isn’t, my dear,’ Trudy giggles, ‘Though I’ll admit I perhaps follow them more avidly than most.’

‘Which is why I was so excited to introduce you both,’ Finnick turns that burning smile to me, ‘Trudy was a great friend to me during my Games, and I know she’s always fascinated to get to know more tributes from District 4.’

‘Oh, absolutely. Do tell me about yourself, Miss Cresta. Are you looking forward to your Games?’

_Make the truth work for you_ , Finnick’s voice says, although he hasn’t spoken. My jaw works silently for a moment before I speak. ‘I didn’t want to be chosen,’ my words are careful, ‘But I was taught to take what life gives you with your chin up and feet moving.’

‘Oh how precious,’ Trudy breathes.

‘I have much to be grateful for,’ I glance to the side, ‘And I’m lucky to have Finnick as my mentor.’

‘Aren’t you just,’ Trudy smiles, ‘I imagine you’re quite the envy of all the girls.’

My sincerity has backfired, and my cheeks warm. ‘That’s not what I –‘

‘You’re going to be on-screen across the whole of Panem,’ Trudy continues, ‘Do you have any idea how many millions of people will be watching? How exciting for you!’

_Exciting._ Of course. My words stop once again, and I glance at Finnick helplessly.

‘I do so love the District 4 accents,’ Trudy’s adds, ‘They’re ever so rustic, and yours is simply adorable.’ She leans in and stage whispers, ‘Finnick has learnt to drop his at will of course. He’s trying to fit in with Capitol society, the cheeky little boy.’ She reaches out to tap him lightly on the chest, and I stare.

 ‘Trudy, if you’d excuse us.’ Finnick directs us away, grabbing two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. ‘I would apologize,’ he mutters, ‘But she’s disgustingly rich, and very fond of sponso - ah, Mr Trubenville!’

I fix my own faint smile back onto my face as a man in a scarlet suit I recognize as an eminent banker from Riley’s list bears down on us. There are too many people in here.

‘Your first mentee, Odair?’ he says in a deep voice. Finnick looks at me expectantly and I realize I have to introduce myself.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Trubenville,’ I force the words out of my hot, dry throat, and hold out my hand for him to kiss in Capitol fashion. ‘My name is Annie Cresta.’

‘Yes, I know that my dear,’ he says with a smile. ‘We all saw your rather unfortunate altercation at the choosing ceremony. Not a Career then?’

I nod, and he gives a small whistle, and then a great guffaw. ‘Oh Miss Cresta, that’s more work for you, I’m afraid!’

I feel my gorge rising. How can they talk of the Arena – the inevitable killing – as though –

'Well hello, handsome,' says a lazy voice, 'Who's the little sweetpea you've got on your arm tonight?'

A slim young women in a dress of deep green lace with a slit to the thigh regards us, hand on hip. There is none of the frightened girl-child in these unreadable eyes, no feigned vulnerability in her oh-so-casual poise.

‘Johanna,’ Finnick’s face splits into a new grin, ‘I wasn’t expecting you to show up for at least another half hour.’

‘Then I’d just be living up to expectations, and where would be the fun in that?’ Johanna doesn’t look at him as she replies; her eyes rake over me instead, her gaze claustrophobic. I swallow.

‘So,’ she says, popping an olive in her mouth, ‘I’m going to three of these boring social evenings in the next week. Tell me why you’re better than my tribute.’ I start as I realize it’s me she’s addressing.

‘Well,’ Finnick begins.

‘Uh-uh, Finnickins,’ Johanna holds up a warning finger, ‘Let the kid speak for herself.’

There is nothing I can say, nothing I have to offer against Demera Rooksblood of 7, who I see out of the corner of my eye. Her dark skin glows against the jewel colour of her dress, but its beauty does not hide the lean muscles in her back from years felling and carrying lumber. She laughs with an eminent politician, at home in the whirl of society. There is nothing I can do to make me a better tribute than her.

But there are some things I can simply _do_.

‘I can swim,’ I say, ‘I can swim well.’

Johanna raises her eyebrows, and I force the quaver from my voice.

‘And I’m intelligent.’ I feel petty at the boast. ‘Brains are as important as brawn.’ And now I feel ridiculous too.

‘Go on,’ says Johanna. There’s a slow, mocking smile pulling on her lips. I refuse to look at Finnick, because somehow that would mean she’d won. She is only as old as I am. How can that be? How is it that the Capitol ages the Victors this way? Or perhaps it is simply the Games themselves that rip the childhood from them.

‘I’m small, and I look weak, so people are going to underestimate me.’ My frustration at the evening boils over into anger. ‘I seem to remember that worked for you.’

Johanna makes a noise that might even be a laugh. ‘Adorable plan.’ Her lip curls. ‘Except that I wasn’t actually weak.’

The heat of the room makes my skin feel like it’s going to burst. Above, the bright lights of the chandeliers tilt slowly, sickeningly, in their frames.

‘Miss Mason, Mr Odair,’ says a honey-toned voice I’ve heard in a dozen movies. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure…?’

‘Please excuse me,’ I say, and pull away from Finnick, from Johanna, and from the new guest before any of them has a chance to respond. Breathing hard, I weave my way through the glittering guests and back to the entrance to the room. If I can get out into the corridor and have some space to clear my head maybe I won’t keel over. _You just ran out on a potential sponsor_ , chides a voice in my head, _that was rude and foolish._ It sounds like Finnick. Well, I ignore him.

The sounds of voices soften slightly in the corridor, and as the door swings too I relax slightly.

I close my eyes, lean back against the wall some way down the corridor and concentrate on the soft sound of the sea in my mind. If I can conjure up that sound, I can pretend that I’m at home.

‘Oh, you’re here,’ says a voice behind me. I open my eyes, and there’s the boy from District 7, paused as he exits the function room. ‘Needed some air too?’ he says ruefully, ‘Guess that makes two of us.’

He comes to lean on the wall beside me, and tilts his head back, letting out a puff of breath. ‘That lot in there are all a bit much.’ He frowns. He has tan skin and high cheekbones. ‘Have you ever met any of these Capitol types before?’

‘Not really,’ I say, ‘Not before this week.’

‘Me neither,’ he says, ‘God, I’d never even gone to the edge of my District before I came here. It’s a bit…’

‘Overwhelming?’ I offer.

He grimaces. ‘Exactly.’

I bite my lip. ‘Do they think you’re a…a _rustic_ as well?’

He turns, his dark, almond shaped eyes wide. ‘Oh yes. I don’t think I’ve ever been more patronized in my entire life.’

The knot of tension inside of me has been punctured, allowing it to drain away. ‘Tell me about District 7,’ I say. ‘And don’t just tell me you chop trees down – we get that on every state film.’

He laughs, ‘That’s because it’s largely true.  We’re over the mountains north of the Capitol – not that the mountains ever really end, of course. Every time I see them on the horizon I just want to run out of this place. They’re so close but I can’t go there, and I don’t know whether it’s worse when I look at them or not. Hell, it’s ridiculous but I miss the mountains most of all –the silence, I mean, and the emptiness.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I say wistfully, ‘There are too many buildings and people here. Sometimes where I live the only noise you can hear is the sea, and if you go out over the water you even forget there’s any noise at all. Then it just goes on forever. I can barely sleep without the sound of waves. But you can’t even see the sea from here.’ The words are slipping out easily, in a rush. I feel a fierce sense of kinship with this boy I have only just met.

‘Do you really get those wonderful hot summers down there?’ he asks.

‘It’s hot almost all the time,’ I smile, ‘And in the summer we get incredible storms.’

‘No snow then?’ he grins.

I smile back, ‘I’ve never seen snow.’

His eyes widen. ‘Seriously?’ He shakes his head. ‘Wow, just you wait till you do. You’ll have to visit someplace colder one day because boy, are you missing out.’

He trails off.

‘I never particularly wanted to see snow anyway,’ I say quietly. His brown eyes flash through with momentary pity, but then anger, fear. I think my face tells him I’m feeling just the same, because he stares at me a long time before he opens his mouth to speak.

It takes him a while to form the words. ‘What’s your name?’

_‘Annie.’_ I jump at the voice behind me, and we both push ourselves off the wall, him brushing his hands on his suit legs. Finnick is walking down the corridor towards us. ‘Enough time out. You just ran out on Shine Oakenhome. Time to make amends.’

He comes to a stop beside me and places a hand on my shoulder, and inclines his head towards the boy I’ve been talking to. But it’s a slow, dangerous movement, and the look in his eyes is not one I recognize. It’s a threat, although I’m not entirely sure what for.

The boy nods back. Then; ‘It was nice to meet you, Annie Cresta,’ he says. ‘Even if just for a little while.’ He flashes a tight lipped smile.

Then Finnick is propelling me round with his hand, fingers firm and uncompromising on the bare skin of my shoulder. The look on his face makes me remember how little I know of who he really is.

‘No friendship here is genuine, and you’d be a fool to think it is,’ he says, as we enter the function room once more. ‘Don’t fall into that trap. I don’t want to have to find myself having to intimidate the other tributes on your behalf again.’ I can’t tell if he’s joking.

I can’t intimidate. There is nothing remotely intimidating about me. I don’t want there to be anything intimidating about me. And what we were talking about – it meant nothing. Nothing Finnick would find important, at least, but to me -

 ‘I didn’t even learn his name,’ I protest.

‘Good,’ says Finnick simply. ‘It’s easier if you don’t.’

‘What if I was making an alliance?’ I ask quietly.

His eyes flicker down to me. ‘You could do better.’ We pause at the doorway of the function room and he removes his hand from my shoulder. ‘Don’t let Johanna do to you what I just did to 7.’

'She’s terrifying,' I blurt.

‘She’s my best friend,’ says Finnick quickly, and I start with surprise. He won’t meet my eye. ‘But yes,’ he clears his throat, ‘She can be terrifying.’

After a moments pause, I say, ‘You can be pretty terrifying, so I guess that makes sense.’

Finnick snorts. ‘Terrifying is an act I’ve spent the past five years cultivating.’

‘And Johanna?’

He shrugs. ‘I’m pretty sure she’s always been that way.’ He flashes me a quick, wicked grin. ‘It’s something to aspire to.’ I cannot bring myself to respond.

We turn into the function room again now, and a flawless smile attaches itself once again to Finnick’s face. Johanna walks around the edges of the room, green dress brushing the floor, not communicating with the other guests, but watching the progress of the female District 7 tribute with her cold edged gaze.

_Something to aspire to._

Shine Oakenhome bears down on us once more. I stiffen.

‘I apologize for running off so rudely, Mr Oakenhome,’ says a voice. It comes from my mouth, but it’s not really mine. And though there’s a smile on my face, it’s not one I can feel.

 

***********************************

_Preservation. Domination. Exploitation._

The words come in time with my fists pounding into Finnick’s gloved fists. My forearms ache.

‘More aggression, Annie,’ he says. ‘I can barely feel you. Remember. Exploitation.’

‘I hate that word,’ I say, pausing for a moment to gasp for breath.

‘I know you do,’ says Finnick. ‘Which is why I need you to repeat it until it’s part of you, and you’re not afraid of yourself any longer. Everything about the Games is exploitation. Every single moment of it. When you talked to the guests last night, that was exploitation. When you started forming a bond with the boy from 7, that was exploitation.’

‘I don’t think he meant it to be.’ _I certainly didn’t mean it to be._

‘Of course it was. And you can use it. So use it.’

‘What am I going to do in my assessment presentation?’ I blurt.

Finnick purses his lips. ‘You’re not a Career, but you’re smart. We can get you a passable score.’

‘Teach me to use a trident,’ I say suddenly.

Finnick blanches. ‘No,’ he says, ‘Not that. Not a trident.’

‘I’ve used a simple one before,’ I say. Not one like Finnick’s of course – a short, basic one for fishing. It’s the only real weapon I’ve had any experience in handling. _If I’m going to survive I need all the head start I can get._

Finnick won’t catch my eye. ‘There’s no guarantee you’d get something like that in the Arena. Better to focus on something less specialized – there will always be hunting knives, short swords.’

Except for the year there were no weapons at all. That year they bloodied each other to death with fists, until the Victor smashed open the heads of the final three tributes with a rock.

‘We’ll think about that more after lunch,’ says Finnick, ‘For the moment, I have something else planned.’

He throws me a towel and I rub the sweat from my neck and forehead as we walk from the gym through into a small side room, walls ringed by a continuous bench.

There’s a wire pen set up on the floor, in which, of all things, six fluffy chickens scratch and peck at the floor. What? What on earth is Finnick doing?

‘Where did you get these? Are you planning on teaching me to survive in the Arena by raising livestock?’ I ask. It’s a terrible joke, but Finnick gives a momentary smile. Then he is back to business-like, as he always is during our training. He leads me over to the pen, and flips up the chicken wire on one side. One of the chickens struts out of the pen before Finnick lets the side drop back into place.

I stare at the chicken blankly. I honestly don’t have the faintest idea what Finnick intends. His arms are folded. ‘Pick it up.’

I frown. That seems simple enough. It’s not exactly like I’m unused to handling animals. I crouch down and make a dart for the chicken, which gives an indignant squawk as I pin its wings and lift it up, nestling in my arms. It clucks at me warily. I look at Finnick expectantly.

‘Kill it.’

‘What?’

‘You think I’m joking? Kill it.’

I gape slightly. ‘It’s just a chicken.’

His green eyes are dark. ‘Exactly. And you’ll be snapping much larger necks with those hands of yours before long.’

I swallow, and my throat is dry. _Annie-can’t-kill._

I can’t do it. I just can’t. Not even an animal.

Finnick gives a hiss of impatience. ‘Put down the damn chicken, Annie.’

In confusion and shame, I place the bird back on the floor. I blink because there might even be tears in my eyes.

Before I know he’s doing it Finnick is lunging towards me, and now he’s flipped me round so that I’m pressed against his chest, one arm locking round me and pinning my arms to my side, the other under my chin, fingers cupped around my jaw and ear, dragging my head back to expose my neck. I fight the urge to panic, dragging in a shocked gasp.

His entire body is pressed against mine, his breath tickling the side of my neck.

‘One twist,’ he says, voice matter of fact, ‘And you’re dead.’

Suddenly he’s moving again, and then somehow one leg has swept my feet from under me and I hit the ground with a jolt, air knocked from my lungs. He pins me to the floor with one knee on my pelvis, holding one of my arms over my head and his other hand splayed flat on my chest.

‘Dead again,’ Finnick says.

I stare up at him, open mouthed. He’s leaning over me, inches from me, and now it’s not just the adrenaline rushing through me that’s causing the hitch in my breath. Once again, I’m mesmerized by the color of his eyes. Forest leaves. The sea. His smooth, bronzed skin is dusted across the bridge of his nose with faint freckles, breath hot on my face.

Then he moves off me in one fluid movement. For a moment I am still unable to move.

‘When you see an opportunity to kill, you take it.’ How is his voice still so smooth, so unruffled? ‘Because no-one else is going to hesitate to kill you.’

_I can’t kill._ I pull myself back to my feet. I can’t do it. ‘I can’t.’

Finnick tries a different tack, voice suddenly low, coaxing. ‘Annie. You know this is something you need to learn to do.’ He reaches out with one hand, gently lifts my chin until I am forced to deliberately avoid his gaze. ‘Annie,’ he says my name slowly, lingering on the first syllable. ‘You can make it quick. It won’t even hurt it.’

I purposefully, determinedly, keep my eyes averted from his, a clutch of anger in my stomach that he thinks he can _charm_ me into this. I reach for his hand, push it away from me. ‘I told you. I can’t do it.’

He makes a noise of exasperation, and throws up his hands. ‘How do you expect to hunt? How do you expect to eat?’

‘This chicken won’t get eaten.’ I know it’s true, because I’ve seen how things work in the Capitol. It will be thrown out, wasted. ‘I can’t.’

Finnick’s tone once more betrays his anger. ‘If you can’t even end the life of an animal, how in hell do you expect to kill another human being?’

‘No killing,’ I say, my breath hitching. ‘That wasn’t in our bargain. Our bargain was survival.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Annie.’ Finnick snarls. ‘You’re going to have to kill at least one person if you want to live.’

This is the first time he has lost his temper with me, and my stomach lurches. I press my hands to my face. I can’t think about this. I haven’t been letting myself think about this. I have to live. I have to. But I cannot kill another soul. I feel as though the world is pressing down on me. I have tunnel vision. I’m going to panic.

‘Annie,’ Finnick snaps, ‘I am your mentor. It is my job to train you how to stay alive for as long as I damn well can, and I’m _ordering_ you to do this.’

I can’t bear shouting. Blood pounds in my ears. I can’t bear him shouting at me.

_‘_ _Annie_. For fuck’s sake, kill the chicken! _’_

‘Okay!’ I cry, yanking my hands from my face. ‘Okay,’ I say more softly, blinking back tears. ‘I’ll do it. Stop shouting, I’ll do it.’

Finnick’s eyes are flat and hard, and he watches me without expression.

Slowly, I reach down to pick the chicken back off the floor, making soothing noises in the back of my throat. I feel its soft heartbeat through the warm mass of weathers as my fingers close around its body.

It’s just a bird. And she trusts me now, calm in the embrace of my arms. There is no reason for her to die. I’m starting to shake, vision blurring. She gives a questioning cluck, eyes bright but uncomprehending.

_I’m so sorry, little girl._

I wring her neck.

***********************************

I stand there for a while, the still warm body clutched to my chest. My heart is pounding as I stare at its small brown eyes, pupils fixed ahead in an expression that moments ago was quizzical. I’m not crying. I thought I would be crying.

‘Good,’ says Finnick. His voice is emotionless.

Perhaps he didn’t think I could do it. I feel the manic urge to laugh. _Annie-can’t-kill._

I look up at Finnick, expectant, defiant.

‘Good,’ says Finnick again. His green eyes are flat, unreadable. He looks down at the pen by our feet, where the other chickens still heckle and peck. ‘Now I want you to kill all of them.’

 ‘No.’ The word slips out, and I feel a thrill at the disobedience.

Finnick inclines his head, jaw clenched, and now his eyes seem darker. ‘Annie.’

‘Is this because of what Johanna said? Is this because I’m _weak_?’ My hands begin to shake, and I almost shout the words. ‘Because I just killed a helpless animal, and I am _done_.’

‘Annie. Calm down.’ Finnick steps forward, one hand outstretched, and I flinch from him. He pulls back, face white.

‘You can stay here, in this room,’ he says. ‘Stay here until those birds are dead.’

‘I won’t do it.’ My voice is firm, but still blood pounds in my ears. I am angry at him not only for pulling this ridiculous stunt, but for intimidating me. And I am angry at myself, for being intimidated by the proximity of his body.

He opens his mouth, to shout at me again I assume. But instead he runs his hands backwards through his hair, eyes closed. When he opens them again, they are back to their normal shade of green.

‘Well then, Annie Cresta,’ his voice is light, deceptively unconcerned, ‘You’re going to be in here a while then, aren’t you?’

I do not reply, and his gaze searches mine. I stare back, defiant, and I catch a flicker of his anger before it is carefully folded away and hidden in the back of his eyes. _Ha._

I stand, silently shuddering, as he closes the door of the room behind him. My rigid fingers sink into the cooling corpse of the chicken still clutched in my hands.

***********************************

It is several minutes before my breathing slows back to its normal level, and it is several more before I think to put down the chicken. On second thoughts I place it on a bench out of sight of its fellows. Then I stand in the middle of the room by the pen once more.

I am not going to do as Finnick has told me. But not because I can’t – I have proved that I can – but because I _will_ not. And that gives me a strange sense of satisfaction.

I also feel a small flicker of fear at going against the explicit instructions of my mentor, but clamp down on it. For more than half a week I have been a pawn in the Capitol’s game, and though I know he is trying to help me, that in some sense he is even on my side, I am sick of it.

So I go to try the door and find it has been left unlocked. I peer around the gym, half expecting to find Finnick there, but upon finding it empty scurry through the large room and back out into the corridor. I force myself to slow to a walk, because I tell myself I have nothing to be ashamed of. And yet my fingers still burn, still feel the twitch of the chicken’s neck as I jerked it aside.

Trying to take control of my thoughts, I turn right, and walk down two corridors before I realize I have completely passed the elevator and staircase. I eventually find my way to what must be the service elevator. The numbers are already scrolling up as it makes its way up from the bottom of the building. I hit the button and the doors slide open as it reaches my floor.

‘Oh,’ I say. The lift is already occupied, and rather full. A tall, bald man in plain black stands to the front, behind him two large trolleys stacked high with full cardboard boxes. He must be one of the staff. In fact, I think he was our chauffeur on the first day. ‘Do you mind if I squeeze in?’

The man nods, and I slip in the small remaining gap.

As the lift rises I feel as though I must talk. Anything to stop myself from feeling so jumpy. All I can see in my mind is the sea green of Finnick’s eyes and it makes my skin burn. With which emotion, I no longer know.

‘Are these all kitchen supplies for the District 4 tributes?’ my voice is obviously strained.

The man doesn’t reply, I’m about to repeat my question. But he simply gestures to his mouth and makes a faint buzzing noise in his throat. I frown, but then it dawns on me.

He is an Avox.

My face flushes. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘I didn’t realize.’ I find myself trying not to stare at our reflections in the elevator doors. When the lift doors open on our floor, into a back corridor I’ve not been in before, I spring to try and help him. He shakes his head, making a buzzing noise again. ‘Oh no it’s fine,’ I say, ‘I can help you move these.’ I have to make up for my former error. ‘My name’s Annie by the way.’ I say, as we manoeuvre the trolleys out into the corridor, but blush again as I remember he can’t respond. Yet the man simply smiles wryly, and taps a small badge he has pinned to his lapel. _Darius,_ it reads. And in smaller letters underneath, _Finnick Odair._

Slavery is normal in the Capitol, as is the practice of oral mutilation – but of course they don’t call it that. And it doesn’t mean I’m comfortable with it.  The idea of having something so fundamental taken away from you as the power of speech – to live your entire life as nothing else than somebody else’s possession - makes me sick.

And this man is Finnick’s possession.

‘This might sound odd, but there are some chickens in the dressing room beside one of the gyms,’ I say, ‘I couldn’t move them all by myself.’ I hope he doesn’t notice how the calm of my voice threatens to shatter.

Darius gives a wave of his hand as if to say, don’t worry about it.

We push the trolleys to a door which leads into the domestic service quarters, and he gives me another little wave as he disappears inside with the supplies. How many other people work here, behind the scenes, who I’ve not even met, invisible? Who is he, and what he did to have his tongue ripped from his throat? Does he write when he needs to communicate with Finnick? Does Finnick communicate with him at all? There’s something hollow settling in the pit of my stomach.

The door shuts behind Darius and I stand unmoving in the empty corridor because I cannot bring myself to go back into the main areas of the penthouse where there is a possibility I might run into Finnick. And yet it is not from fear – it’s this new found anger. I don’t know what it means, and I don’t want anyone else to see me like this.

I make my way back through the rooms and corridors, hoping to get to my room without running into anyone. My sneakered feet make almost no noise on the carpeted floor as I start to walk faster, and I yank the hair tie from my tight ponytail. But as I enter the central living room to cross over to my corridor I pause, because there is Finnick, still in his training clothes, and beside him Ophelia, long hair done up in a thick braid circling her head.

With my hesitation, I realize they have not registered my presence. And so I stay where I stand.

 ‘Is it really wise to be so harsh on her?’ Ophelia is saying.

‘I’m not here to be her friend,’ Finnick says, mouth twisted. ‘I’m here to keep her alive.’

‘You’re worried she’s not up for the challenge,’ Ophelia says lightly.

‘I _know_ she isn’t up for the challenge,’ he replies, ‘And it’s not because she’s not capable – it’s because she’s too – too gentle.’ He runs his hands over his face. ‘Too damn principled. She’s just a girl, and the only way I can help her is by breaking that part of her.’ His voice is bitter. ‘By turning her into a murderer.’

‘Finnick, stop this,’ says Ophelia, ‘Nobody here is a murderer.’

Finnick’s voice is tight. ‘I’m sick of watching them die, Ophelia.’

Her dark eyes are soft, and she places a hand on the side of his face. It is almost motherly. ‘We all have to do what we can. That’s all we can do.’

He closes his eyes with a sigh.

‘Be her friend, you idiot,’ she says seriously. ‘God knows she needs one right now.’

Finnick gives a little huff of breath. I move out into the room and Finnick turns towards me, brushing away Ophelia’s hand as he does.

‘I didn’t kill them,’ I say simply. There’s a strange power to be taken from talking first. Ophelia’s eyes flicker between us. I wait for the anger, but instead Finnick simply nods. For the first time I notice the rings of tiredness under his eyes.

‘Come with me,’ he says, and turns away before I have replied. I follow him mutely from the room, returning Olivia’s smile as I pass. He leads me down towards a suite of rooms where I have not yet been – his rooms. I hesitate as the scanner reads his palm and the door slides open. These are his private quarters, and I have no place here. As I linger in the doorway he turns, eyebrow raised.

‘Come in. There’s nothing here I want to hide from you.’

I nod and walk forward, and my flickering eyes must betray my curiosity. Finnick has his own wide, open plan living area, the back wall entirely window, mimicking the central room of the penthouse. Through a door standing ajar is what must be his bedroom. The color scheme is different however, soft blues and greens. A jumper lies crumpled over the back of a low couch, with a small pile of books spread haphazardly across the coffee table. There is no attempt at decoration other than a number of shells scattered haphazardly across a clear sideboard. Finnick’s eyes follow me, carefully, expectant. I walk over, let my fingers brush them, nut brown curled horn shells, the rough, jagged edge of a broken coquina, and an upturned conch which reveals the soft gleam of mother of pearl.

Only smalls signs of Finnick’s presence, and yet there is a different feel to the room. I’m calmer here.

And then I notice it.

The trident lies on a diagonal plane against the glass of the window, balanced on a number of hooks. A sleek, gleaming shaft of metal with three prongs, each topped by a wicked barbed hook. It’s almost as tall as I am. Something inside my throat locks but I cannot stop myself from walking forward, raising a hand, almost touching it, and then falling back. It’s like something used by a water god. And you cannot look through the window without it breaking up the view, silent and jagged against the backdrop of the city.

‘Why do you keep it here?’ I ask.

Finnick stands by my side. Yet there is a certain distance - he never stands too close to me, not if he can help it. Other than the first night when he hugged me, and when we’re sparring. Perhaps he thinks I’m fragile, that I’ll be intimidated. He’s not wrong.

There’s a small crease between his eyebrows as he looks out over the city. ‘So I don’t ever forget.’

I’m suddenly drained, overcome with the emotion of the morning and I find myself blinking back tears of sheer exhaustion. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for. I want to reach out and touch him, to provide some form of solace.

Finnick looks down at his hands and I’m surprised at the shudder in his breath. There’s a touch of that wry half smile on his lips. ‘We make quite a pair.’

I gaze out once more through the prongs of the trident into the city streets far below. The day is overcast to match the shade of the pavements and there’s the movement of people walking, brightly colored specks against the grey. Two streets away, an elevated train appears framed in the gap between two buildings, carriages racing by in thirty seconds of repetition before disappearing from sight.

I suppose in its own way, it’s beautiful.

_Darius._ The name is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t quite bring myself to voice the question. I don’t want to have my thoughts confirmed. I don’t want that too to hang between us.

‘Annie,’ Finnick says suddenly, and his tone is urging, and if it made any sense I’d have thought he seemed nervous. ‘I won’t do that to you again.’

I don’t reply, but he must see from my face that I’m relieved, that I’m not really angry with him. Not anymore. Something in his jaw, the trace of his lips softens.

‘We need to find you a skill for the presentation,’ he says, after a moment, because the silence is heavy. ‘It won’t be a show of force. But that’s alright. They don’t have to be.’ He nods, as though attempting to convince himself. ‘They’re bored after twenty four tributes every year throw knives at a target. They value something original, as well as pure deadliness.’ He turns back to face the window, and murmurs. ‘But we do need something.’

Once again, I raise my hand as though to touch the trident, and this time I let one finger slide gently along a fork. Cold.

‘I know what I want to do,’ I say.

 

***********************************

A week to go.

‘Don’t be stressed, honeyplum. This isn’t a real interview, not like your one with Caesar Flickerman.’ Ambrosia gives big, white smile. ‘This will just be more of an informal chat, just to whet the public’s appetite.’

‘So they get a chance to appreciate your personality,’ says Maggie sweetly, ‘Before you’ve been given your presentation scores.’

_Before they realize you’re worthless._

Finnick and I are due to appear for an interview together this morning, and my prep team fuss around me, Ganymede sorting through different shades of varnish and holding them next to my nails.

‘I’ve never had to talk to cameras before,’ I say.

‘Don’t worry darling, you have nothing to worry about.’ Maggie says, ‘They’re going to adore you.’

‘Actually,’ says Ambrosia, in the hushed tones of one imparting a big secret, ‘It isn’t normal for them to give mentor-tribute interviews.’ She gives me a meaningful smile. ‘So we know that they are interested in you already.’

_Or that they’re digging up excuses to put Finnick on-_ _screen._

Two hours later, and I mull over her words as Finnick and I sit in a small antechamber beside the chat show set. Shelleysticks twists in my fingers. Finnick looks pointedly at my foot, which I have been subconsciously tapping against the floor.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ve never been in an interview before.’

‘And I’ve never ridden a horse before,’ he says, ‘Neither have I ever eaten more than three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in one sitting before. But there’s a first time for everything.’

‘Honeyplums!’ Ambrosia bursts through the doors, lights of her hair twinkling madly. ‘I’m here to rescue you.’

Finnick raises an eyebrow. ‘Rescue?’

She puts her hands on her thighs and talks in short bursts as she tries to catch her breath. ‘The others. Be here soon. Ganymede got stuck on first flight of stairs.’ Then she straightens up, producing a huge make up brush and a pot of powder from her vast pink handbag. ‘Oh Finnickins. We completely forgot about the bronzer.’

‘My god,’ Finnick’s face is a mask. ‘We almost went onto a live broadcast without bronzer.’

_Finnickins._ My laugh becomes a sneeze as Ambrosia nods seriously and dusts powder all across my face. ‘I know, I know. My poor babies. I had to break the speed limit and flirt with two doormen to get to you in time.’ She giggles. ‘To think someone like me could break into a studio.’

She moves over to Finnick, who bats her hand away half-heartedly. ‘Stop. You’re ruining my sex appeal.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Ambrosia, brushing furiously around his cheekbones. ‘Everyone loves a pretty boy. And we all know you make an _exceptionally-’_

‘Annie Cresta, Finnick Odair?’ a technician pops his head round the corner. ‘You’re on in thirty seconds.’

As we walk round the corner, Ambrosia trots with us, licking a finger and smoothing down one of Finnick’s eyebrows. ‘You’ll be wonderful,’ she stage whispers, and blows us a kiss, as we join the technician, who acknowledges us with a nod. I peer out onto the stage, where Samhain O’Costa and Balthazar Fairbain sit on a wide L-shaped couch, smiling at the dark silhouettes of a laughing studio audience.

‘And now for two very special guests,’ beams Samhain, tight purple curls matched by her sharp violet shoulder pads and even sharper heels. ‘A new partnership which has got all of Panem talking.’

‘That’s right,’ agrees Balthazar, ‘He’s a household name and the media’s darling. But now for the first time since his own Victory at the tender age of fourteen, the Capitol’s most eligible bachelor has taken on the challenging task of mentoring a new tribute – and a girl from his own home town, no less.’

Finnick gives me a half smile and as his eyes meet mine something inside me lurches.

‘You ready?’

I nod.

‘Please welcome Finnick Odair, Victor of the 65th Hunger Games, and his tribute for this year, Annie Cresta!’

I take Finnick’s proffered arm, and we walk out onto the wooden flooring with bright lights on our faces and the applause of the audience filling our ears. My eyes are dazzled and I forget to smile outwards, turning instead my slightly dazed expression towards our two hosts as Finnick and I take our places on the sofa.

‘Finnick, Annie, it’s an absolute pleasure to have you here.’ If Samhain smiles any wider her face might split.

‘The pleasure is all ours,’ I smooth down my skirt.

‘We’ve got you to thank for inviting us,’ says Finnick, returning Samhain’s smile. The noise from the audience dies down but for a few isolated whoops. ‘ _I love you, Finnick_ ,’ calls a voice from the back.

‘And I love you too,’ says Finnick without missing a beat, ‘But I can’t promise you’re the only one.’

The audience erupts into laughter. I’m almost bewildered at so much noise pressing into me in such a small space.

‘Stop the Victor worship!’ cries a voice, and before I’ve even registered what’s happening, a dark dressed man and woman are dashing onto the stage in front of us, brandishing a banner between them. ‘End Games Corruption!’

Instantly, three security guards are sprinting out from the wings. Both Finnick and Samhain jump to their feet, while I press myself back into the sofa in surprise. Is this part of the show? The security guards tackle the couple, and the man flings out his arm, and Finnick narrowly misses being hit with the contents of a cup of water. More than a few audience members are standing too now, and calling out admonishments.

‘End the Victor worship!’ shrieks the woman, continuing to shake the cloth banner as she and her partner are dragged away. It reads _VICTORS AREN’_ _T HEROES_ in virulent red paint. They are bundled hastily off stage, their shouts becoming muffled and then disappearing altogether.

Finnick turns to the audience with studied surprise, and makes a show of shaking water droplets from his fingers.

‘Well, it seems you’re still one to provoke controversy,’ says Samhain, voice quavering slightly.

‘Oh, I thrive on controversy,’ says Finnick and then the entire audience is applauding us. I’m still at a loss as to what’s just happened. Who were they? What did they want? _End Games Corruption._ What does that mean?

‘I can’t apologise enough,’ says Balthazar once the noise dies down, his hair slightly rumpled. ‘That was certainly highly unexpected. Rest assured that the two protesters will be securely dealt with.’

_Protestors._ Something starts moving in my mind, catches, and drops smoothly into place. I have never heard that word before outside of a history book. There are people who do not simply… accept things. In the _Capitol,_ no less.

My mind bursts with an explosion of questions, but as quickly as I can I pull down a mental blind to shut out the clamoring in my head. I can’t think about that now. I have to concentrate. ‘It’s fine,’ I shake my head at Balthazar, ‘You don’t have to apologize at all.’

Balthazar looks relieved. ‘Finnick, Annie, if you don’t mind we’ll get straight back on with the interview,’ he shifts in his powder blue suit, ‘As we’ve just had so kindly demonstrated to us by our two rabid attackers back there-’ the audience laugh again, ‘-This is a bit of a new situation for both of you. So on the topic of new beginnings, Finnick, what exactly is it that made you choose to become a mentor this year for the very first time?’

Finnick frowns in thought. ‘Actually, it’s something that I’d been considering for a while. And this year I felt ready for the first time.’ He glances at me. ‘Annie’s the first tribute our District has had in a while without any training experience. So for me to mentor her felt…right.’

‘Indeed,’ says Balthazar, ‘District 4 has sent a solid streak of well-trained tributes for the past six years running. How did it feel, Annie, to be picked knowing what your District has lived up to in the past?’

I wet my lips, stalling for a moment. ‘I was…’ I clear my throat, and repeat, more loudly. ‘I was shocked. I don’t think anyone was expecting a non-Career to get picked.’ I blink because suddenly my eyes are wet. ‘I thought I would be able to go home.’

Samhain’s smile crumples in genuine sympathy and there are sighs from the audience. ‘Was it a great comfort then, to know that you were going to train with one of the best?’

Now I look at Finnick. _Be honest,_ his green eyes are saying. ‘Actually… I didn’t want Finnick to be my mentor.’

Samhain raises her eyebrows, and Balthazar sucks in his cheek; Finnick gives a bark of laughter which is echoed by chuckles from offstage. As I’m pointedly ignoring my spiraling thoughts about the intruders I almost begin to relax in an atmosphere that, despite being unfamiliar and overwhelming, also seems more genuine than my other Capitol engagements so far.

‘Well, he’s just so famous,’ I speak more quickly, worried I’m about to start blushing. ‘He’s _Finnick Odair._ I thought it would be…weird.’ There are more chuckles from the audience.

‘You didn’t want such a famous face around to distract you while you were trying to train,’ says Samhain, smile teasing.

‘Well, no,’ I say slightly indignantly, ‘I didn’t want to have _his_ face around. I never liked it when it was hung on all the Victory banners.’

More chuckles, and Finnick smiles. ‘And here I thought she was my biggest fan.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Not everyone from our town is in love with you,’ I blurt.

This time, there’s open laughter from the audience, and Finnick stares at me. Samhain bends over forward clutching her sides. My lips twitch. I used to like this. Being social, making new friends, sometimes even making them laugh.

_Go with the flow._ That voice is Ophelia’s.

‘Well it’s all coming out now,’ says Balthazar, still chuckling, ‘Which leads us excellently into our next question, which is how would the two of you describe your partnership? Would it be safe to say that you’ve bonded quickly?’

Finnick, leant back with his arms across the back of the sofa, looks about to answer, but then shuts his mouth and turns to give me the lead.

Suddenly I am unsure, almost embarrassed. ‘I… suppose so. We are together every day.’ I twist my fingers around Shelleysticks. ‘He’s doing everything he can to try and teach me to stay alive. I guess it’s hard not to bond when you’re thrown into that sort of situation together.’

Samhain smiles. ‘That’s just lovely. We’ve had an overwhelming response from the audience so far, who have been sending in questions of their own. So if you don’t mind, we’ll ask you a few of these.’ She picks up a holopad from the arm of her sofa, and taps it twice. ‘This first is for you, Annie, and it’s from @Jenny_Moonblaum. _What is your favourite thing about the Capitol?’_

‘Um…’ _Finnick Odair. Nothing at all._ ‘I guess… I like the view from our apartment. You can see the mountains.’

‘The next is for you, Finnick. @Adam_Berlam would like to know, _Have you ever considered growing a proper beard?’_

Finnick laughs. ‘If only I could, Adam,’ he says, rubbing his chin ruefully, ‘It’s still rather patchy down here, I’m afraid.’

‘Annie, @Marine_Daka says, ‘ _What would be the best present a sponsor could give you in the Arena?’_

_An escape plane._ I chew the inside of my cheek. ‘Some of my mother’s salt-water taffy,’ I say.

‘Not a weapon?’ Samhain raises her eyebrows.

‘Oh,’ I say, and blush. ‘I didn’t think of weapons. But I’d still probably say the taffy.’ The audience laugh.

‘Finnick,’ says Balthazar, ‘@Greena_Grolfin says, _Finnick, call me? My number is 8570-_ Okay, who put _that_ question on the list?’

The audience roars, and I have to roll my eyes at Balthazar’s attempt to look baffled under his grin.

‘For Annie,’ says Samhain, ‘This is a slightly more personal question, from @Falcio_Betelman. _What was your first thought on being chosen?’_

My smile freezes on my face and coldness runs all over me, as I remember what this really is, and why I am really here.

Eventually my mouth starts working again. ‘My first thought… was that maybe if I ran quickly enough…they wouldn’t chase after me. And I could get away.’

‘But you didn’t, Annie, did you,’ says Samhain softly. ‘We remember seeing you start, but then you walk all the way to the stage of your own accord. Your little brother with you, in fact. We were very touched.’

‘A turn around like that must have been extremely brave,’ says Balthazar.

‘Not really,’ I say. ‘I didn’t really have a choice.’

There is a silence. Finnick is looking at me with a strange warmth in his eyes. And then, very simply, he raises a hand and places it against my shoulder. His fingers squeeze just once, before he lets it fall.

Samhain and Balthazar glance at each other.

‘So,’ Balthazar clears his throat, ‘For a slight change of topic, what’s the _funniest_ thing that’s happened to the two of you so far?’

I don’t think either of us knows what to say. But somebody needs to say something. That was not the direction this interview was supposed to go.

‘Well,’ my mouth says before my brain can catch up, ‘There was the incident with the chickens.’ What am I saying? This story isn’t funny. This story shouldn’t be funny at all.

‘Chickens?’ Samhain raises her eyebrows and glances to Finnick, who suddenly puts his face in his hands. ‘Oh, do go on.’

‘He told me I wasn’t cold blooded enough. So he had a pen full of chickens brought into our training session… and he told me to kill them all.’ My tone is entirely serious.

Finnick raises a finger. ‘Hey, I’m not apologizing. I was trying to be a good mentor.’

I cross my arms. ‘You were trying to turn me into a chicken murderer.’ The audience, momentarily unsettled, raise a nervous chuckle once more, and I grasp after that light-heartedness I’d captured till just a moment ago.

‘I can’t believe she’s making a joke about this now,’ Finnick splutters, ‘She almost tried to attack me at the time.’

‘This _isn’t_ a joke. Shut up.’ I point at him, and this time the audience’s laughter doesn’t die down, and the smile doesn’t leave my face either. ‘Those animals were completely traumatized.’

_‘They_ were completely traumatized?’ Finnick clutches a hand to his chest. ‘ _I_ was completely traumatized when you went full chicken avenger.’

‘Wait, _you_ were traumatized? I was one who was traumatized!’ I splutter. ‘You just kept standing there raving about killing chickens!’

‘So I take it you didn’t kill them?’ says Balthazar.

I feel a rush of shame. _Annie-can’t-kill._ I remember the quick, frail snap of the bones in its neck. But there’s nothing I can do about it now. ‘I did kill the one,’ I say sullenly. ‘I feel awful.’

There’s a sigh of sympathy from the audience. ‘You gentle hearted soul,’ says Samhain, ‘That’s actually quite adorable. What about the rest of them?’

‘I refused,’ I say. _I couldn’t do it._ ‘I thought it was a stupid idea. We’d have been eating them from now until the Games, and I certainly don’t want my last proper meal to be chicken wings.’ I smile. ‘But I did make sure the dead one was cooked up and served to Finnick later.’

The audience is laughing again, and once more Finnick is staring at me. ‘You didn’t.’

‘Oh, I did,’ I say, not quite managing to keep my face stern. There’s something big and bright bubbling up inside of me at having made so many people smile. And then at making Finnick laugh too, his head thrown back, hair flashing gold as the sound ripples up from deep in his belly.

‘It seems the two of you have been getting along like a house on fire,’ Samhain says, fanning her face with one hand, ‘You come from the same place in your District, too. Did that help you feel an instant connection?’

‘Well, _I_ thought so,’ says Finnick brazenly, and points a thumb. ‘Clearly _she_ didn’t.’ I shrug as if to say, _what can you do._ ‘But at least she appreciates my sense of humor,’ Finnick continues, gesturing towards me again. ‘It’s doing wonders for my ego.’

‘No I don’t. Please don’t laugh along,’ I say out to the audience, my voice deadly serious. ‘He’s bad enough as it is. You’ll make him think he’s actually funny, then I’ll have to put up with these awful jokes all week.’ My lips curl up at the end despite myself.

‘Let’s not forgot how similar you are in age too,’ Balthazar continues. ‘I guess it was only natural for your partnership to become a friendship from the start.’

_Partnership._ I look over at Finnick, and there’s a thoughtful smile curving across his beautiful face.

‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘Yes, I suppose it was.’

Balthazar pauses. ‘That’s…well.’

‘That’s lovely,’ says Samhain simply. The audience are silent for once.

I still have Finnick’s eye, but now his smile fades, gaze frozen. I go cold. _Lovely._ Maybe that’s what it is, but it doesn’t matter, because there isn’t very much of it left.

Six and a half days, to be exact.

‘Annie, Finnick,’ says Balthazar seriously, ‘It’s been a delight talking to you. I wish you all of the best in the future, and especially you, Annie.’ He takes my hand to kiss it. ‘May the odds be ever in your favor.’

The applause of the audience fills the room once more, and as I look back at the bright lights I find I’m having to blink away a wetness in my eyes.

***********************************

‘Easy peasy,’ Finnick had stood arms folded and wry smile back in place once we left the set. ‘They’re suckers for anything. And I reckon you were even enjoying it.’

He’s right, it wasn’t so bad after all. My face is flushed bright and my legs shake with delayed nerves as I re-enter my rooms in the penthouse. All I want now is a sit down and a drink. But then there’s a squeal as my prep team rush towards me, and all three of them smush me into a bear hug.

‘They tried to escort us out of the building after the security breach,’ says Maggie, breathlessly, ‘But after Ambrosia hit them with her handbag they let us stay to watch the entire thing on-screen in the lobby.’

‘You were wonderful. The press are going to go absolutely mad, _’_ Ambrosia squeezes even tighter, and I would protest that I can’t breathe, but I can’t stop grinning.

‘Annie, you absolutely shone,’ Ganymede says. ‘You didn’t let that little altercation rattle you at all, and best of all, you had them in stitches.’

‘It was terribly shocking of those two at the beginning,’ says Ambrosia, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a thing in all my life. The security in that building must be dreadful. _’_ She gives herself a little shake. ‘But don’t let’s bother about them. Annie, you were fantastic.’

_‘_ Think of the publicity you’re going to get. You might even secure yourself a sponsor just on that,’ Maggie gushes, ‘And not to mention that it was the best interview Finnick’s given in years.’

‘Oh, hush,’ Ambrosia chides, ‘Annie was the real star. Honeyplum, we never knew you had it in you. You were so _feisty_.’

‘We’re so, so proud,’ says Maggie.

I close my eyes, let myself sink into the warmth of their embraces. I can’t help but remember the last time I was hugged like this, and there’s a clutch in my throat.

As my team finally let me go, I frown in confusion. ‘Wait. You said this was Finnick’s best interview in years. I thought Finnick still gave interviews.’

‘Oh yes, he does,’ says Ganymede wryly, ‘And he’s an expert at giving them what they want. Living up to their expectations. Putting on a show.’ He beams, ‘But not this time. You almost had him wrong-footed there. You gave as good as you got.’

‘Your natural chemistry was wonderful,’ says Maggie. I suppose my surprise is visible on my face, because now she gives a sigh of fond exasperation. ‘He’s so much more relaxed around you. Haven’t you noticed?’

‘I… no.’ Of course I’ve noticed that he is different around other people – by which I mean in public, around Capitol people. ‘I haven’t noticed him behave any differently towards me than to you, say,’ I reply. ‘Or to Ophelia.’

Ganymede snorts. ‘Annie my dear, Ophelia’s known him for years. You’ve been here for less than a week.’

Ambrosia straightens herself up as though she’s about to teach me an important lesson. ‘I’ve been working with the District 4 team for three years. In front of most people, Finnick has two settings.’  She ticks them off on her fingers. ‘Seduction, or murder. Generally it’s a combination of both. Around you he’s so much more… like himself.’

I honestly don’t know what to say.

‘Honeyplum, we’re so proud of you,’ Ambrosia says, giving me another squeeze.

Over her shoulder, for the first time I notice Ophelia standing silently behind the group. I almost blush.

‘Good work, Annie,’ she says simply, and above the smile on her face her eyes are reassessing, recalculating. Of all the praise I’ve been given, this means the most. But I can’t think about reviewers right now, anonymous journalists writing articles and reblogging our interview across the holosphere. I barely understand what they’re saying about Finnick’s behaviour around me. My mind is full only of the protestors, replaying their run onto the stage again and again. The fervent gleam in the woman’s eyes, the anger on her partner’s face.

I feel as though I sit poised on the edge of something huge. There are people out there who think the Capitol’s obsession with the celebrity of the Games must be wrong. But their words strike at me deeper than that. There are people out there who _question._ Question what we know to be right, and just, and our nation, because Panem is right and just. Oh, I know well the Games are bloody and bitter. But the Games are built into the fabric of our lives, and work as part of a far greater whole – our nation, that protects us, that leads us, and that values each District for its worth. I know this.

But by questioning the Games, they question our nation itself.

In that moment, my mind bursts open, and adrenaline courses through my body, propelling me not just down a whole new avenue of thought but to a new way of _thinking_.

_I am one of them._

***********************************

I sit bolt upright, sweating. The room is dark, floor a deep blue with the corners between the furniture sinking into deeper blackness. The window, which I programmed to be not entirely opaque, lets in a thin chink of light from the city outside which cuts in a thin beam across the floor. There was a figure leaning over my brother, who stared with sightless eyes, a gaping hole in his neck. Marcus is safe, I tell myself. You don’t need to panic because your brother is safe.

‘Annie,’ Finnick bursts through the door of my room. I must have screamed, although I don’t remember, and I am suddenly ashamed.

‘Nightmare,’ I say. ‘I’m alright now,’ although my hands are still shaking.

‘Annie,’ he smiles ruefully, ‘You’re supposed to get nightmares once you’ve made it through the Games. Not before they’ve even started.’

He is dressed only in pajama trousers but for the leather cord he always wears around his neck, and I try not to focus on the lean muscles of his chest and the movement of his shoulders as he runs a hand through his hair.

‘I’m not sure I can go back to sleep now,’ I say blankly.

Finnick sighs. I don’t want him to leave, but I can’t very well ask him to stay.

‘Come with me,’ he says suddenly, ‘I have something to show you.’

Curious, I twist around to put my legs out over the side of the bed and into my slippers, and he reaches out a hand to pull me up. I’m expecting him to let go, and when he doesn’t, I’m hyperaware of the sensation of his skin as his strong fingers link through mine. His skin is slightly rough, which I didn’t expect for someone so used to living in the lap of luxury, as though he’s still a fisherman who handles nets, skin chapped and cracked by the sea salted air.

He leads me out of my room and down into the living area.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask, but he doesn’t reply.

‘This is the maintenance closet,’ I say stupidly as we come up to the small, sealed metal door tucked into one corner beside the elevator.

‘Not only,’ Finnick says, and reaches out to place his palm on the scanner. The door clicks open and we enter. The room is small and dark; I can vaguely make out the shapes of cleaning equipment, and I almost trip over a mop. For a moment my breath hitches at being alone in this small dark space with him, but then Finnick pulls me through another doorway and up onto a cramped, spiral metal staircase. I have to walk behind him, his arm trailing behind. Surely it would be easier for him to just let go of my hand?

I won’t let go of his, however, and he doesn’t drop mine.

‘When I can’t sleep, this helps,’ he says, as he reaches above his head to press against a skylight. I know what he’s doing now, and a moment later a cool night air is stroking my cheeks, lifting my hair from my shoulders.

I follow Finnick up out onto the roof.

The Capitol is beautiful at night. All around us, on every side, bright sky scrapers rise up into the sky, dotted with a thousand lights of rooms and offices, swirling, flashing lettering of giant company logos and massive billboards which project advertisements out into the night. The stars are overwhelmed by the glow from the city below and the sky is tinged a dull orange. A waxing moon hangs up above us. The city is alive, a vast, thrumming being, and yet so high up it is also entirely silent.

‘Aren’t you cold?’ I ask.

It’s only later that day that I remember that Finnick’s rooms are on the other side of the penthouse. It seems I am not the only one who cannot sleep.

 

 

***********************************

Six days.

There are seven tributes ahead of me, which means almost an hour of waiting. An hour of sitting on a bench between these two metal walls with all the other tributes, thinking of all the things that could go wrong. I try not to stare at the others too much. When Clyde is called through, I start to control my breathing. Everything is going to be fine.

_Unless Finnick’s favour didn’t pull through._ My voice is sly. _Unless he was mistaken. Unless he was lying._

No. I shake my head to dispel the ridiculous thoughts. The two of us have planned this. I know what I need to happen in that room, and Finnick promised me he could call in favors to make it work.

Perhaps it’s a little bit like cheating to have my mentor pulling the strings, but I need every bit of help I can get. As if everyone else isn’t doing their best to manipulate their odds.

Clyde can’t be much longer now.

_‘District 4, Annie Cresta.’_ The voice of the intercom is smooth.

I wipe my palms on the thighs of my skinsuit, and stand up. What’s the worst that could happen? I get a minimal score. People have gotten a minimal score before.

_And most of them died minutes into the Arena._

As I enter the gym I resist the urge to screw my eyes tight. Let it be there. Please, let it be there.

The door clicks behind me softly and my footsteps echo against the empty walls. There, directly in front of me against the far wall, the Gamemakers watch on their mezzanine balcony. And there, on the floor, hip height, is a large, clear, rectangular tank.

A tank filled with water.

I realise I have been clenching my fingers into my palms. Thank god. I knew Finnick would be able to pull it off. I make my breathing deep, even. Emptying my lungs entirely with each breath.

_‘Annie Cresta. You have ten minutes to present your skill.’_

I glance up again to the figures standing on the balcony. They’re gathered around some sort of buffet meal. Nearly all of them are paying attention. That’s good. We’re lucky, Finnick said, to be one of the earlier Districts. By the time they get to 12, sometimes they don’t even bother watching anymore. Most hold champagne glasses, one idly pops grapes into his mouth. At the side stands a curvy, white haired lady. Last year’s head Gamemaker, Aurecula Clodowelch. Beside her stands an aquiline man with sharp, cat like eyes. The head Gamemaker, Triton Berenzen.

My skill isn’t dangerous. It isn’t even particularly impressive. But it’s all I’ve got.

I step into the tank, the water surprisingly warm in the insulation of my skinsuit, and wade into the middle of the tank. I’ve been systematically filling my lungs to capacity for the last ten minutes. So as I take in my final breath, I know it’s as prepared as I am going to get.

I drop down to my knees, and go under.

My limbs float free. As I close my eyes it’s cool, and it feels like a blessing.

_I open my eyes._

_I’m back in the deep of the southern gulf. Soft waves lift my hair, the smooth pressure strokes against my skin. There’s blue in every direction, so complete that I don’t know which way is up any more. I squint, and notice that there’s a light striking down from above me, scattered and broken by the water. It’s the summer sun, and beneath me light travels over sandy ripples on the sea bed. Long, lanky fronds of sea weed drift in the current, and smooth pebbles catch the light in the sand below. A tendril of hair strokes my cheek, and then the darting fins of a school of tiny silver fish. Noise travels further in water, and I hear the muffled sound of laughter._

_My throat catches and I let out a bit of breath. Bubbles burst softly around my face. It’s my brothers. They’re swimming with me._

_I’m warm down here._

It’s the aching in my lungs that makes me open my eyes. The blue is gone, slipping away into a warm memory. It’s black around me and my chest contracts in panic, my arms poised to thrash.

_No._ I know where I am. I’m in the tank. I cannot panic. I have to stay under.

I close my eyes once more, willing the trance to return. But my heart beats too fast now, and I have no idea how long I have been under. My chest is beginning to burn, and I will my muscles to relax. But I can bear it no longer, and bubbles burst from my mouth, bursting across my face and rushing across my cheeks. This relieves the tension in my chest momentarily, but now the burn is coming back again, and stronger.

_Give up,_ says my voice, _give up, this was a ridiculous idea anyway._

There’s a pounding in my ears. No. I clench my fingers, and focus on the pain as my nails dig into my palms, ignoring the agony inside of me.

_Hold on, Annie._

This is a different voice. A warm voice. But I can’t, Finnick. I can’t. I’m going to break apart.

There’s a dark shape over me. Feet. Legs in the water. Are they coming for me?

_Don’t let them get to you first, Annie. Stand on your own two feet. Show them that you did this on your own terms._

It’s all I can do not to choke as I battle to push my legs under me, and wrench myself up out of the water. I suck in air, heaving, and look into the shocked eyes of a security guard who had leapt into the water to pull me out. There are people peering over the balcony, champagne momentarily forgotten, Aurecula and Triton among them. It’s all I can do not to collapse, to stand on my shaking legs, and I heave air into my ragged lungs like a drowned man.

‘Seven minutes have passed, Miss Cresta,’ says the guard. His voice is even. ‘Apologies. They were wondering that you might have drowned.’

I start to shiver now. Seven minutes is longer than I have ever held my breath before. No-one I know can hold their breath for six minutes.

I have to hold on to the side of the tank as I clamber out, and I almost fall to the floor, avoiding the guard’s proffered hand. But instead I unfold myself, and stand straight.

_Remember to bow,_ says Finnick’s voice. _They always like a show._

Trembling, I manage a nod at the game makers. My time came and went, and I didn’t give up. I did it. I’m walking back towards the doors, and amazement dawns inside of me as my hair sends rivulets dripping down my back.

***********************************

The Careers are ranked highly, of course. Ten and nine, nine and eleven, a ten and an eight respectively. Clyde gives a satisfied half smile as a large silver eight appears by his name. Shona tips her head at him. ‘I wouldn’t have expected less.’

Now it’s my face on the screen.

‘A three is all you need,’ Ophelia says simply.

‘Ideally, we’d aim for anything above a three,’ Aenon replies. ‘As sponsors would never consider anything below a six, or five if you’re lucky. As you know, two or below would be a disaster. However, in _this_ case,’ he shrugs, ‘A three will suffice.’

Riley gives me a sympathetic glance as I let his words wash over me. What was I expecting?

I squeeze my hands into my thighs. I thought Finnick would be here to see my score being given, but he disappeared when I went for my presentation. I feel an unreasonable stab of resentment. He’s my mentor. He should be here.

_But he has a life that’s bigger, and more important than you, Annie,_ says my voice.

And then I realise that I have missed my number.

Aenon gives a hiss of breath. ‘A welcome surprise indeed.’

‘Wait,’ I turn, frantic, ‘What was it?’

Aenon appraises me. ‘Not bad, Annie Cresta. Not bad at all.’

‘How on earth did you manage that?’ Clyde says, almost sounding amused. ‘That score’s almost decent. I thought you just had some weird water trick going on.’

‘Heaven forbid that it should have been impressive,’ Ophelia says lightly.

‘I guess the Gamemakers were feeling generous,’ I say haltingly.

‘Or perhaps they’d all started early on the champagne,’ Shona mutters.

Ophelia catches my eye once more. He must see my confusion, because ‘A four,’ she says, a half smile breaking across his face. ‘You got a four, Annie.’

My cheeks are flushed. I can’t speak, because my throat is swollen with relief that rushes up out of me all in one breath. A four. A _four._ I wish Finnick was here to see this.

Perhaps Shona is right. Perhaps the Gamemakers did just feel sorry for me.

_Or perhaps water survival tactics were relevant to this year’s games._

And perhaps, just perhaps, I might even have a chance at survival.

***********************************

Finnick doesn’t return all afternoon or evening, and I hang around on tenterhooks, desperate to give him my news as soon as he returns. It’s long past nightfall when I reluctantly go to bed, but I sleep lightly and wake up gasping, a frightened face fading before my eyes. Finny. My little boy. My baby brother.

I squeeze my eyes tight to stop the tears, clenching Shelleysticks hard enough to bleed. And beyond the hollow gasps of my own breath, a door clicks softly shut.

I know I’m being ridiculous, and it’s the middle of the night. But I cannot sit here with my mind on my home. I jump from the bed and step out into the corridor, running lightly towards the main room. But as I reach it I slow down at the low murmur of voices. I peer around the corner, and freeze.

Johanna’s figure is bright, throwing Finnick’s face into shadow. And then Johanna’s face flickers, and I realise I am watching a holochat, an image of Johanna thrown up by the small device sat on the coffee table at Finnick’s feet.

‘You know I’ve heard things,’ Finnick is saying, ‘Rumours. And the EGC – it could be something.’

‘We’ve been searching for concrete signs for over a year,’ says Johanna. ‘Those were a couple of Capitol idiots who wanted to have their five minutes of fame. Filling their heads with fantasy, just like the ones who whisper in your ear.’

‘But they do whisper,’ says Finnick. ‘They whisper. And maybe they weren’t what we – but these were so _open_ about it, Jo, you must have seen the broadcast – Jo, this has to be something.’ He reaches out as though to brush her shoulder, as though they can really touch.

‘There was never anything. _There is no-one._ ’ Johanna jerks away, her image flickering. The hologram cuts out, and Finnick’s hand is left to curl, empty, in the air.

I am certain they are talking of the two protestors on the show yesterday. Finnick and Johanna have been searching – for what? For people like those protestors?

My breath catches. Could it be –

Finnick stands, staring at the empty surface of the glass table for minutes before he sighs, swiping the holoprojector up to put it back in his pocket. Long arms reach out above his head as he stretches, yawns, and his shirt lifts to expose the tanned skin, and soft trail of darker hair of his abdomen. He runs a hand through his hair, messy as though he’s been sleeping on it. The colour of his eyes is smooth, liquid.

In this moment, everything about him feels vulnerable. Heat rises in my cheeks and I turn away; I have pried too much to reveal my whereabouts and speak to him now. As I pad quietly back to my room, I realize that his shirt, so pristine earlier in the day, was rumpled and had the buttons done up incorrectly. There’s a faint smell of jasmine on the air. My gut twists.

_Did you really think he would curb his lifestyle for the sake of training you?_

Sleep is gone from me forever now. There is too much to think about – the pound of excitement that Finnick might know more about the protestors, the dull ache for my family which awoke me initially. But I cannot satisfy any of those queries tonight. And so I cross my legs on my bed, here in the middle of the night, and flick through the tribute list on my wallscreen. I will try to remember every face, to learn every name.

1, 2 and 3 are the Careers. Victory and Halcyon, Epiphany and Indigo, Cashmere and Iberis; I already know their faces well. 4 are Clyde and I of course. 5’s are both rather young; Quiver with her mop of black locks, and round cheeked Thorborn. 6’s boy is called Matteo Blist. And that’s Fannia with the round cheeks.

Jordan Guthrie. That’s the name of the District 7 boy. He’s seventeen, like me.

I haven’t met either of 8 yet. Ettie Lam is fifteen with sleek black hair and almond shaped eyes, and Jet Steer the tiny boy I remember from the choosing. He is twelve.

I force myself to move on. Jules Fern of 9 has tight dark curls and olive skin, Merris Locktar is thin faced with mousy brown hair. 10 is the twins, pointed chins and sly eyes. I flick past quickly. 11’s tributes are both dark skinned, like the majority of people in their District. Our teachers said that Panem’s demographic geography has been planned to produce maximum efficiency output per ethnic group. Mal Stonebridge is fourteen but with a jaw already set firm; Faeme Bawton is eighteen, like me, with long hair pulled into a braid. 12’s I have already seen in the gym, tall Kayn and fifteen year old Trellis with her scruffy hair and freckles.

The end.

I let out a deep breath, and try not to remember that none of us are older than eighteen. That all of us are heading for the Arena.

A box on my screen reminds me that the databank has all the footage from previous Games readily available for instruction and training purposes. A sudden curiosity takes me but my fingers hover over my remote, unsure.

‘Computer,’ I say eventually, ‘Show me the tribute interviews for the 65th Hunger Games.’

The screen brings up a series of videos, and I flick through them quickly before I can change my mind. There he is. Two interviews. One before, and one after. The cursor hovers again, but I can’t quite bring myself to press play. I don’t quite know if I want to watch this. I don’t quite know why it feels as though I’m prying.

I steel myself and press play all.

_Caesar Flickerman’s smile glares against skin so tanned it’s almost orange as he ushers a tall young man onto the stage. The boy settles on the couch, at home in his angular suit. His skin is almost golden and there’s a dusting of freckles across his nose. His smile is slightly bashful. He’s gorgeous, and he’s going to be a slightly different sort of gorgeous before long, but he doesn’t quite know it yet._

_‘Finnick Odair, welcome.’ Caesar begins, ‘Let’s get straight to it. How are you enjoying your stay in the Capitol?’_

_‘Loving it,’ Finnick replies, earnest. There’s something different about him. Something in his eyes that I don’t recognize. ‘It’s incredible. To be honest it’s a little crazy.’_

I’ve seen this before of course, five years ago. I huddled around our screen with my family, and a few of our neighbours. To have a tribute from the waterfront – a real fisherman’s son, no less – everyone was abuzz.

I remember the watching, but I don’t remember what I watched. Perhaps I didn’t want to remember.

_‘Give me two words to describe how you’re feeling about the Games. Oh, but you can’t say ‘excited’ or ‘nervous’.’_

_‘In which case, ‘enthused’, says Finnick, and there’s the rumble of the audience chuckling, ‘And perhaps ‘anxious’.’_

_‘Then what would you say is your greatest fear about what’s ahead?’_

_Finnick purses his lips. ‘That’s pretty simple. Losing.’_

_‘Well Finnick,’ Caesar’s voice is low, conspiratorial. ‘Let’s be honest here. You got a fairly commendable score for your presentation. A strapping young lad like you_ – _you think you have a chance? A good chance?’_

_‘I…’ Finnick gives a small shrug. ‘Well, that depends.’_

_‘Depends on what.’_

_‘I can fight,’ says Finnick honestly, ‘But I’m not a real Career. And you never know what you’re going to get in the Arena. You never know what sort of weapons you’re going to get.’_

_‘Ah, it all comes down to the weapons,’ says Caesar, nodding. ‘And if you could pick a weapon – any weapon in the world – what would it be?’_

_Finnick doesn’t miss a beat. ‘A trident.’_

_‘Of course,’ Caesar smiles, ‘District 4, through and through. So if you had the right weapon, you’d have a chance?’_

_Finnick’s smile for the camera is flawless. ‘Yeah. I’d have a chance.’_

I pause the recording. Oh, that was clever. Whose idea was it? Ophelia’s? His mentor’s? Or perhaps his own. Or perhaps he wasn’t playing them at all. Perhaps he just got lucky.

Yeah, right.

Hungry for more, I flick on to the next video.

_Finnick’s suit is white, this time. He stares straight ahead. He isn’t smiling._

_‘Welcome back, Finnick,’ says Caesar. The Panem seal is emblazoned on the huge screens behind them. ‘And may I say, on behalf of the Capitol, a phenomenal congratulations.’_

_‘You may,’ says Finnick, and Caesar laughs._

_‘Finnick, you were up against a fierce range of tributes, most of whom were far older than you. But once you got that trident in your hands, you were unstoppable. Simply unstoppable.’_

_‘Well, it was my idea.’_

_Caesar laughs again. ‘Of course you’re right, it was. You’re an intelligent young man.’_

_‘That also helped.’_

I realize what it was I saw in his eyes during the interview before, because it’s something I instantly realize is missing now. Is missing from the eyes of the Finnick who lies asleep mere rooms from me.

Innocence.

And now, I know why I feel like I’ve been prying.

_‘Finnick, tell us. How did it feel, in that moment?’ Caesar leans even closer. ‘How did it feel to beat Briar Inchcape, to know that you’d won?’_

_‘It didn’t feel like anything.’ For the first time, Finnick turns to face Caesar. His eyes are blank. ‘I stuck him with my trident and he squealed like a pig.’_

_Caesar’s smile falters._

I lurch forward and turn off the recording with a tap. I push myself to the back of the bed, arms wrapped around my knees, because it’s cold in here.

Finnick. Oh god, Finnick.

 

***********************************

The next morning my prep team requisition me for a quick session of what they call ‘Mix and Match’. This involves scrutinizing and reclassifying every potential outfit in the ridiculously huge wardrobe I still can’t quite think of as mine.

‘Do you know where Finnick went yesterday?’ I ask casually, stood in the center of my dressing room, arms outstretched.

‘Hmm?’ Ambrosia experimentally curls a lock of my hair, then turns me around so that Ganymede can hold a large lime colored poncho against me. Ophelia, overseeing, purses her lips, and Ganymede disappears back into the wardrobe, trailing feather boas.

‘He disappeared before I got a chance to tell him about my score,’ I continue. ‘And then he came back so late we couldn’t talk. Is he alright?’

 ‘Oh,’ says Ambrosia. ‘That. He… well, would you look at that.’ She lets the curl bounce down on to my shoulder. ‘I knew it would suit you.’

‘It was probably sorting out that little trick you pulled with the water tank,’ says Maggie, dropping an armful of shoes unceremoniously onto the floor. ‘I imagine _someone_ wanted him to pay up for that.’

Ambrosia glares at Maggie, but Maggie doesn’t seem to notice.

‘Pay?’ I ask slowly. ‘He said he’d have to pull some strings. But he looked as though he’d been…you know…’ I trail off.

‘Well of course,’ Maggie begins sorting the shoes into three piles, which I imagine to be titled _fearsome, weekends only,_ and _not even when dead._ I wince as a pair of sky-high, snake-skin stilettos are promoted to pile one. ‘Payment _à la_ Odair.’

‘Magenta,’ says Ophelia sharply.

‘Excuse me,’ I say bluntly, ‘What?’

Maggie looks up, a confused frown on her face. I sense Ambrosia stiffen beside me. Ganymede’s fingers flutter nervously on the collar of a patterned dress he holds. ‘Maggie, I think Annie doesn’t really know about all that.’

‘Know what?’ Something cold unfurls in the pit of my stomach. ‘ _Tell me.’_

Ophelia breathes out a low sigh, and unfolds her arms. ‘I’m sorry, Annie. It’s not pleasant. But there isn’t any easy way of putting it. Finnick is well known in the Capitol for providing… comfort…to people with the power to demand it.’ Her lips twist. ‘He isn’t the only Victor under compulsion do so.’

‘No.’ My voice is hoarse. ‘He said he was going to call in favors.’ _Favors._

‘Oh, honeyplum.’ Ambrosia sighs, eyes glistening. ‘You didn’t know. I’m so sorry. We all think it isn’t fair.’ She squeezes my hands as I stare wildly between the four, my bottom lip trembling. Their gazes all share the same pity.

Then I retch, lurching towards the sink. Ambrosia pulls back my hair and makes soothing noises as I heave up into the basin. Finnick is being treated as less than human. As chattal. My chest tightens in what is almost panic. ‘ _I_ did this to him. I told him what I needed, and he – he – ’

‘Annie,’ says Ophelia, firmly, ‘Finnick helped you because he wanted to. He _chose_ to.’

‘No,’ I say, and I’m shaking. ‘No-one should have to choose this. No.’ I wipe my mouth, turning to lean against the basin, and a sob escapes my lips. ‘Why didn’t you _tell_ me?’

‘Annie,’ Maggie’s eyes are wet with tears. ‘Annie, we thought you knew. Everyone knows. All the holomags –’

‘Do you think I ever got to read many holomags?’ I yell. Ambrosia bundles me into her arms, making shushing noises. I squeeze my eyes tight shut to fight back my tears, but I can’t stop my shoulders from shaking. I knew that the Capitol could be ruthless. God, how could I not. Wasteful. Corrupt, even. But this?

Maggie and Ganymede stand helpless.

Simply, smoothly, things slip into place. Finnick’s relationships with the young, the glamorous – no, with the rich, and several neither young nor glamourous. So high profile. So short-lived. _And those are just the ones we here about._

‘This is what he does,’ I state flatly. ‘This is what they do to him. The Capitol’s _interminable bachelor.’_

 ‘I’m sorry,’ Ambrosia whispers. ‘We’re so sorry.’

There’s a lump in my throat that makes me think I am going to throw up again. Burning on my cheeks that I could have been so naïve not to guess. In a week I will be in the Arena. And yet what they have done to Finnick – _what I have done to Finnick –_ fills me with more horror than the prospect of anything I will face out there.

‘It’s not right,’ I say, and it’s not just shock making my voice tremble now. ‘It’s sick. How _dare_ they. How dare they force him to – to prostitute himself -’

Then my body cramps once more and I am turning away from Ambrosia, bent double over the basin once more. Dry heaving, nothing coming up but spit. Eventually I cough, and it stops.

‘Who picks them?’ I say flatly.

‘Picks who, honeyplum?’ Ambrosia’s hands flutter anxiously, stroking my back.

‘The women,’ I say, ‘Finnick’s women. And the men.’ I lock eyes with her in the light studded mirror, my voice suddenly harsh. ‘The ones who take Finnick as payment. Who chooses them?’

 ‘They… ah…’ she closes her eyes. ‘Nobody picks them. They have to bid.’

My hands clench the edges of the sink. ‘Who,’ my voice is tight, ‘Picks them.’

‘President Snow,’ says Ophelia simply, ‘They bid to President Snow.’

A kernel of something hot and violent lodges itself in my stomach. It might be hatred.

Ophelia takes my gaze in the mirror, places her hands on my shoulders. ‘Don’t let him know that you know,’ she says softly, deep brown eyes searching mine, ‘He needs to believe that you think the best of him, no matter what. It’s the only way he can be himself around you. You can’t let him know, because it’d break his heart.’

_But I do think the best of him_. I hold back the tears as long as I can. _I do._

***********************************

Training continues as normal this morning. Yet knowing what I do now, every time I try to speak to Finnick, my throat sticks.  I scan his face desperately, looking for some sort of sign of unhappiness, or discontent, or _something._ But Finnick isn’t the one who’s changed. I have. I am wearing the pain I feel on his behalf plastered across my face like a billboard.

At lunch time, we abandon propriety, table manners and Aenon, in favor of grabbing lunch from the buffet and crashing on a sofa to eat. I wind bizarre wheaty strands called noodles back and forth around my fork.

‘I don’t want to go back to the tributes gym,’ I say eventually.

 ‘We can’t hide you away all the time,’ says Finnick, through a mouthful of pasta. He swallows. ‘The other mentors will start moaning behind our backs, and then Aenon will bitch at me for it. There’s no room for shyness.’

‘It’s not about shyness,’ I say honestly. ‘It’s that I’d rather train with you.’

For a moment, he almost looks surprised.

‘You’re a good teacher.’ After what I’ve discovered today, to tell him the truth is the least I can do. ‘I feel like I’m learning, and you can teach me far more than I’ll ever learn there.’

Finnick puts down his fork, lips parted as though he’s not quite sure how to reply. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he says eventually. ‘You still need practice with as many different partners as possible, but I guess I can wring a few more private sessions out of Aenon.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘As long as you won’t …have to call in any more favors.’

Finnick pauses in his eating momentarily, but continues, and doesn’t look in my direction.

‘I just don’t want you going to any trouble for me,’ I try to speak lightly, but my voice catches slightly. I disguise it with a cough.

‘Aenon might be a stiff necked bastard,’ Finnick says, ‘But he’s more dedicated to team District 4 than anyone else here. He’ll understand.’ He catches my gaze. ‘It’ll be no trouble.’

His smile is so broad, so unconcerned. _No trouble, Finnick. Please. I can’t have that on my conscience too._

He doesn’t know that I know. It’s almost as though his nightmare situation is casting its shadow on me alone. If he’s hurting, he isn’t letting it show. I can’t let him find out, because I can’t break his mask. I can’t do that to him.

I force my aching insides to calm, and push what I know to one side, smiling as though nothing is wrong.

I know what my voice would say. It would tell me I was a fool. That of course I want to train with Finnick. But my voice would be wrong. Yes, I want to train with Finnick. But I want to train with Finnick because I want to _live._

And there’s one other thing I know about the voice in my head.

When I’m with Finnick, I don’t hear it at all.

‘You going to eat that?’ Finnick asks, reaching over to steal a piece of my spaghetti.

‘Hey,’ I pull my bowl away from his hands. ‘Pasta thief. Eat your own.’

He pouts. ‘I’ve run out.’

‘Fetch more from the buffet.’

‘You’re closer.’ He grabs out again, and I spoon as much of the remainder of my spaghetti into my mouth at once as I can.

 ‘Exceptionally ladylike, Annie,’ he grins. ‘Please, do that in front of the dignitaries at the ball tomorrow evening.’

‘It a survival tactic,’ I say, swallowing down my mouthful and putting down my bowl, ‘Isn’t that something you approve of?’

‘Ooh. Talking back to your mentor,’ he snorts.

‘My name is Finnick Odair,’ I say in a slow, deep voice, picking up my fork, ‘God of all the peasants of District 4. And this is my trident.’

‘You’re ridiculous.’ There’s a smile ghosting his lips.

‘So are you,’ I say, ‘Using a trident, of all things.’

‘I was given it as a gift,’ he splutters. ‘What was I supposed to do, hand it over to another tribute? He puts on a stupid voice, ‘“Here you go, would you like to use this to kill me?”’

‘You still basically won the Games with a giant fork,’ I say, waving it at him, and put on my silly voice again. ‘Cower before me, mortals, for my cutlery is the terror of Panem.’

‘Give it back,’ he half-heartedly swipes at my hand. He’s trying not to laugh.

‘No,’ I grin, stepping up from the sofa and dancing backwards. ‘Not until you bow to the total mastery of the fork of terror.’ Oh, god. I haven’t been so ridiculous since the last time I helped Marcus pretend he was a sea dragon.

‘Give that back _right now,’_ he says, ‘Or I’ll -’

‘Or what, you’ll attack me?’ I giggle. Then puff out my chest and lower my voice. ‘What could you possibly have to stand against me?’

‘Oh, you have no idea,’ he says, eyes narrowed. He prowls forward, and then whips something out from behind his back. ‘Tremble before the spoon of… I don’t know, _destiny_ or some shit.’

‘You’ve got no chance,’ I say, side stepping him as he makes a lunge forward.

He chuckles, and then my back hits the wall and he’s leaning over me, one arm braced beside my head. A sharp thrill runs through me and I laugh. Pushing off, I duck out under his shoulder and grab his spoon as I go. But strong arms catch me around the chest and I topple backwards, bringing him down with me onto the carpet.

‘Ha,’ I say, escaping from his grasp and pushing myself up onto the sofa, ‘I’m winning. I’ve got both. Be terrified.’

Finnick laughs, white teeth perfect and even. He lunges over the arm of the sofa and I whip the spoon out of his reach at the last second, laughing, scrambling backwards across the cushions. Then he’s over me, leaning over me, elbows either side of my face, and the laughter has left us both breathless. Perhaps it’s the heat from his body; perhaps it’s just me that is burning. His eyes are wide and dark, a darker green than I’ve ever seen them, his lips are slightly parted. A lock of hair has fallen across his forehead; I reach up with one hand, run my fingers through his hair smooth it back into place. Finnick sucks in a breath, his eyelids fluttering momentarily closed.

I’m too close. _We’re too close._

My face flushes, and I jab him lightly in the chest. ‘I’ll stick you with my trident till you squeal like a pig.’ I know even as I’m saying it that I’ve gone wrong, horribly wrong, and my eyes widen.

‘I didn’t mean – ’

As though a curtain has come down behind his eyes, their color dulls, his jaw rigid. I don’t feel comfortable where I am but I don’t dare to move. Slowly, he pushes himself up from the sofa and backs away.

‘Finnick,’ I say, struggling to stand up, but he doesn’t look back as he leaves the room.

I sit by the sofa, breathing hard. My skin still burns from where he was hovering inches over me, but my stomach is sick.

God, how I want him.

 

***********************************

 

My Mom pegging out sheets that billow in the same breeze that ruffles Finn’s hair. Most of all, the tang of salt.

I will never know what its like to make love to a boy. I will never know what it is like to have children, to raise my own family. I will never see the sea again, because all that has been stolen from me, and tonight I press my fist to my mouth to stop the sobbing.

 

***********************************

Today is the day of the Tribute’s Ball, and Finnick and I aren’t speaking at all. While training his commands are curt, distant. And I simply cannot think of what to say.

‘You look tired, honeyplum,’ Ambrosia’s voice is concerned as she brushes foundation onto my face, alone in the dressing room.  Ophelia has disappeared. Ganymede had taken one look at Maggie’s fluffy orange shoes and shook his head, which resulted in Maggie bursting into tears, and a spat which continued all the way out the door as the two rushed off to some salon to organise a last minute outfit swap.

‘I am tired,’ I say.

‘Oh, shush,’ Ambrosia replies, and I’m relieved as she puts stilettos aside in favour of a pair of red kitten heels with a strap buckling up around the ankles. ‘We’ll pop a few drinks down you, and you’ll be dancing the night away!’

In contrast to the elegance of the outfit I wore for our last engagement, this dress has clearly been designed with fun in mind. The strapless white bodice is tied with an scarlet satin bow at the back, the ribbons of which trail down the heavily petticoated and patterned floral skirt, which stops just above my knees. My hair has been curled, hanging loose on my shoulders but for one curl pinned back with an ornamental butterfly.

I like it a lot. Had I gratuitous amounts of money, it could almost be an outfit I had picked out myself. An outfit likes the ones me and Julie used to pore over when we saw them in the holomags, knowing that – unless our lives were to meet with some sort of miracle – our status would never allow us to afford District 1 imported luxury.

_How ironic_ , smirks my voice, _here you are, in a dress you sometimes thought you would die for, and only because you are very much about to die._

 ‘Oh, smile for me honeyplum!’ Ambrosia grins, making last minute adjustments to the butterfly, which glints a deep red in the mirror. ‘This is one of the best parties of the year. All my friends were absolutely _dying_ to be invited.’

I must look horrified, because she purses her lips, and begins to vigorously brush non-existent dust from the front of my dress. ‘Annie,’ she says, ‘Don’t be afraid to have a little fun tonight. God knows we all deserve it.’ She gives a nervous giggle. Ambrosia herself is coated neck to heeled toe in thousands of glittering jewels. On closer inspection the jewels are all shaped like tiny insects. On another inspection, all of the insects are moving. I decide not to ask.

‘We managed to keep the location of the drinks evening secret, but paparazzi are going to be crawling all over tonight,’ Aenon says, he and Riley joining us in the foyer downstairs. ‘Be prepared for that when you arrive.’ His suit is identical in cut to every other one I have ever seen him wear, but is a deep purple to match his hair.

I must look nervous, because Riley gives me a small smile before her face reverts to its usual implacable demeanor. She has swapped her suit for a wine colored dress and her glasses for a large flower in her hair. The doors to another elevator slide open, and I cannot stop my heart from giving a small kick at the sight of Finnick. Unlike Aenon, he is not wearing a tuxedo. There’s a loose, forest green scarf around his neck, light fringe tracing his open jacket. It’s a bright, bawdy shade that I swear would be ridiculous anywhere else, on anyone else. Sweeping up one side of his face is a vivid green streak, smattering emerald around his eye, which continues into the base of his hair, fading out into the warm tan of his skin. He looks incredible. He looks like he belongs to the night scene of the Capitol. I turn away quickly.

‘We will have to move quickly,’ says Aenon, ‘Unfortunately, it was inevitable that word of the timings would get out.’ I follow his gaze to the lights and shapes of a crowd waiting outside the lobby.

 ‘You think they’ll miss an opportunity to splash as much of Finnick as possible on the front of all the holomags?’ says Shona sweetly, patting Finnick on the shoulder. He looks straight ahead, but his eyes narrow.

Porters swing open the glass doors, and we step out into the flashing dark.

This is supposed be fun, I remind myself, as I sit with Finnick in the limousine carrying us smoothly through the city streets towards the party. _This will be my first proper party._

_And my last._

The convoy is unnecessary. Four separate cars carrying Clyde and Shona, Aenon and Riley, and our respective prep teams follow behind. Ambrosia’s hair has utterly outdone itself, gaining about a foot in breadth and height, its beads twinkling in a mad spectrum which I’m fairly certain would blind me, if not squash me, were we sat in the same vehicle. But still, I wish she was here to break the silence. Finnick gazes out the window, shadows racing by cutting sharp shapes across his jaw.  


The car slows down, and I squint as camera flashes silhouette the jumbled pile of journalists and spectators. They lean over the force-field barriers which line the red carpet leading to the open, bespangled doors of a vast glass building that soars up towards the sky. Our chauffeur, Darius steps round to open the door, and I smile my thanks at him. Finnick exits first to a chorus of screams and shouted questions. Now it’s my turn. At least I don’t have heels to trip over this time. I do, however, have a much shorter skirt.

But Finnick is still waiting by the car, one arm outstretched to help me out of the vehicle. I force myself to look up from his unbuttoned collar and meet his eyes. His green eyes are trying to tell me something, proffered hand an unspoken peace offering. A wave of relief rolls over me, and I take it. He gives me a wry half smile, the _Finnick_ smile, as he pulls me upright, and my heart lurches. He doesn’t let go, but takes my arm instead, and we walk down the red carpet side by side.

_‘Mr Odair! Over here Mr Odair!’_

_‘Smile for us, Miss Cresta! Perfect, and again!’_

_‘Mr Odair, can you confirm that you are escorting Annie Cresta as your date for the Tribute’s Ball?’_

_‘Miss Cresta! How would you respond to the rumours of your involvement with your mentor?’_

‘ _End this debauchery! Victors- aren’t - heroes!’_

My eyes widen in recognition. It’s the protestors from the chat show – and they aren’t alone. About ten of them, all dressed in black, struggle to push to the front of the barriers between journalists and fans. Realizing that I have noticed them, their chanting intensifies.

I break away from Finnick to run towards them. There’s a thought in my mind, a wild thought, that somehow these protestors are my allies –

‘Who are you?’ I shout, over the noise from the crowd. ‘Tell me what you want!’

‘EGC, End the Games Corruption!’ shouts a man in a beanie, fist in the air. ‘Stop the Victor worship!’

‘Annie, come away,’ Finnick takes my arm urgently. ‘You can’t be associated with–’

‘Murderer!’ shrieks one of the women, face curdling. ‘Victors– aren’t – heroes!’ Her cry is taken up by the group, and without ceremony, she sucks in her cheeks and spits onto the floor just by Finnick’s feet. ‘Murdering District scum!’

This isn’t what I thought. This isn’t what I wanted. My stomach clenches. ‘How _dare_ you,’ I shout. ‘Do you think Finnick had a choice? He did what he had to to survive, and any one of you would have done the same!’

The woman launches her top half forward over the barrier. ‘You’re just like him!’ she screams, and I step backwards in shock. Peacekeepers are pushing through the crowd, grabbing the protesters and dragging them back. Silent, I let Finnick steer me away.

‘Annie,’ Finnick is repeating my name, ‘Annie, are you alright?’

‘They spat at you!’ My shoulders are trembling from the sheer injustice. Attacking those who make it through the system alive. These protestors are hollow as the rest of them.

_Stupid._ I swallow down the sudden bitter lump in my throat.

‘I don’t give a shit about them, Annie. I’m worried about you.’

‘I’m alright,’ I say, brushing at my eyes. ‘Whoops. There goes my mascara,’ I give a shaky laugh. ‘Ambrosia’s going to kill me.’ _And now everyone here has seen me make a fool of myself again._

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Finnick with a grin, ‘As if Ambrosia wouldn’t have made sure all your makeup was waterproof. What on earth do you take her for?’

I laugh, the sound whipped away from me by the crowd.

‘If I offer you my arm again, do you promise you won’t run away this time?’ says Finnick.

I grin up at him. ‘I’ll try.’

We turn back down the carpet once more, and I try not to squint from the camera flashes.

***********************************

Beyond the elegant, airy foyer, we find ourselves in front of a pair of vast, gilded double doors.

‘The Amethyst Hall,’ sighs Ambrosia in anticipation.

But instead of entering, our guides suddenly direct us to the right, through a small door in another wall. And then we are packed inside a glass elevator which sinks slowly through the floor.

‘I did not even know there was another venue located here,’ mutters Aenon, sounding personally offended. My prep team seem about to explode with excitement.

Our elevator descends, slowly, into a vast underground ball room. I stare, wide eyed. We sink past gilded marble columns wound with vines, and draping perfumed flowers hanging from the ceiling to disguise chandeliers dripping with light. A bird flits past my face on the other side of the glass, and disappears inside one of the chandelier’s baubles – a nest. Below, hundreds of laughing, glittering, spinning guests. Aerial dancers hang from ribbons, performing elegant gymnastics in above the throng as butterflies cluster around their hair.

The elevator comes to a stop. We step out onto a mezzanine balcony accessed by two sweeping. I run to the edge of the balcony where a dance floor opens up below me. Towards the back of the cavern, a series of ornamental, brightly lit pools lie one behind the other up a series of steps, interspersed with fountains. Upon a dais in the very center of the largest pool, a miniature orchestra play, dressed as goat-creatures and woodland spirits from old-world mythology. The noise that bubbles up overwhelms me, bringing with it the heady scent of a thousand blending perfumes.

‘Urgh,’ sniffs Ganymede. ‘The theme is an utter rip off of the 53rd Tributes’ Ball. Heaven forbid I see what they’ve done to the gardens.’

‘Acting casual is key,’ says Ambrosia in a slightly wobbly voice, ‘No-one must suspect that you are impressed. This décor is utterly tasteless.’

‘To be fair, that ice whale in the corner is a little out of place,’ says Finnick.

‘That’s a diamond sculpture of the First President, and you know it!’ Ambrosia laughs, slapping Finnick on the arm.

‘Revel in it, Annie,’ Maggie breathes. ‘This is the night when the Capitol goes _wild_.’ She is dressed entirely in body-paint in the shade her namesake color, and not much else.

‘Is Ophelia with you?’ I ask.

‘Oh, she’s not here yet,’ says Ganymede conspiratorially. ‘Trust me, you’ll know when she is.’

A waiter wearing only a loin cloth and laurel wreath pops up between us, proffering a tray of canapés.

‘Oooh!’Ambrosia squeals. ‘I love olives!’

‘Let’s go drink,’ Finnick says, and we excuse ourselves. Hundreds of couples laughing, drinking, dancing, petticoats swirling, each suit more vibrant and each headdress larger than the last. There are faces I recognize – old Victors, famous politicians. District 4’s best dressed townspeople were never so glamorous as even the waiter who glides past, feathered eartips giving him the look of an exotic beast and a vast tray of drinks impeccably balanced on his steepled fingers. No one here is like anyone I’ve ever met before. Well, not before this week.

My grip on Finnick’s arm tightens. I’m going to need the alcohol.

There is a shriek of excitement and a small, dark skinned and obviously very merry lady in an orange tulip skirt locks Finnick in a tight bear hug. ‘Finnick! I haven’t seen you in years!’

‘Hey, Daisy,’ he grins. ‘I had been going to say ‘weeks’.’

They break apart. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’ she beams at me. ‘Not that she needs introducing!’

‘Of course,’ says Finnick, ‘Annie, this is my good friend Daisy Mbeka; she works as a judge out in the northern Districts, and she’s pretty fantastic.’

‘Don’t flatter me Finnick,’ she squeals, and crushes me into her arms. ‘It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you, Annie. Everyone I know has their money on you and Finnick,’ she says, and leans in with a wink, ‘Because I told ‘em I’d prosecute them otherwise.’

Finnick laughs and pushes her away with a cheerful wave, and meanwhile I blush scarlet. We continue to weave our way through the crowd, Finnick stopping to clap a dozen people on the back, who are all introduced to me and all of whom I forget instantly. As with last time Finnick seems to have one or two genuine friends within the vast crowd of hangers-on. The rest he grants a half-smile or a low-lashed glance, and then on his cool gaze runs off them like water, leaving them desperate. For not the first time I feel utterly overwhelmed by the power he wields over people _. Deadly in more ways than one,_ my voice snorts _._

Eventually we make it to one of a set of vast tables which fill two alcove rooms either side of the dance floor. My eyes grow wet at thought of how excited Marcus would be to try a dessert like the mountain of trifle in front of me – in fact, this one table holds more desserts than he could possibly eat in his entire life. Gods, if the thin, pale families who live in the shanty village outside of town could even be given a third of what our apartment has been eating every day in the Capitol…

Something hot ticks inside of me. This is waste. The Capitol is waste.

_I_ _will do something,_ I tell myself fiercely, _I will not let it all be pointless._

‘Don’t go too wild,’ says Finnick warily, as I select a large glass of champagne from a caravan of bottles, pitchers and punch bowls. ‘You might put off sponsors.’

I ignore him, and drink down the entire glass. _Tomorrow, I’ll tell Darius… ask him if there is a way to transport leftovers for redistribution._ The bubbles are sour in my throat, and I resist the urge to cough.

‘I reckon that’s enough for the moment,’ Finnick adds.

‘Patronizing much?’ It’s Johanna, one eyebrow cocked. The slinky material of her black playsuit glitters darkly. I stiffen.

Finnick scowls. ‘I have less than one week to make this work, Jo.’

‘It’s okay, Ophelia told me to relax,’ I say. _Stylist’s orders_. _And I need all the confidence I can get._ To emphasize this point, I place down my empty glass firmly. Finnick glares as I pick up another.

‘Finnickins, you’re trying too hard.’ Johanna raises an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you think she should have at least one night off? Let the girl get drunk. It might be funny.’

I decide the best course of option is to ignore her completely.  The alcohol is warm in my stomach, giving me a slightly heady buzz of confidence. ‘Finnick,’ I turn to him, ‘We need to talk about the other night.’

His shoulders go rigid. ‘Oh, here we go,’ says Johanna, rolling her eyes. ‘Another innocent corrupted.’

‘That’s not -’

‘Catch you later,’ she continues, clapping Finnick on the shoulder. ‘Don’t come looking for me; I’ll be with Vamos Hayes.’

‘I thought she hated you,’ he calls after her.

‘Exactly’ Johanna throws a wicked smile over her shoulder. ‘Sex is always better that way.’

With effort, I manage not to choke on my drink.

‘The night of the presentations I overheard you talking with Johanna,’ I say, and Finnick’s shoulders lose some of their tension. ‘I’m sorry I pried. But I need to ask about what you said…’

‘Not here. Too many listeners. Come with me.’ Finnick plucks the drink from my hand, and leads me out onto the dance floor. I resist the urge to interlock our fingers.

‘I’ve never danced to a waltz,’ I protest. We have dances at home, of course. But never to this sort of music, and the dancing was done in squares.

‘Nobody cares how you dance,’ he says, catching me around the waist with his other arm, and my breath hitches. ‘Nobody cares as long as you look like you don’t give a damn.’

With his arms around me, Finnick leads me in steps across the low lit floor. I stare resolutely at his shoulder to try to stop myself from goggling at his face. _Focus, Annie._

‘I didn’t know anyone in the Capitol disliked the Games,’ I say. We glide by Clyde, his arms around Cashmere from 3.

‘Oh, they don’t dislike the Games,’ says Finnick, and spins me under his arm. ‘At least not openly. Those protestors may be stupid, but they weren’t that stupid.’ He murmurs in my ear. ‘They go for the easiest target, and maximum press.’

‘So they _are_ criticizing the Games,’ I breathe.

There’s a pause, as we step apart, and then together again. ‘I don’t think so. The EGP are a bunch of conservatives.’ Finnick shakes his head. ‘They dislike that an _institution of justice_ has been turned into a cash cow. And they’re more than a little jealous of District Victors getting places in Capitol high society. They want us to go back to the good old days of stadium Arenas and tributes dying in gladiator rounds. ’

But my flicker of desperation refuses to be so quickly extinguished.

‘Finnick -’ my eyes search his, willing him to understand. ‘There might be more protestors. Finnick, if there are enough people, there’s a chance they could talk to the senate – persuade the President that the Districts have learnt their lesson.’

If Finnick isn’t who I hope he is, the next thing I say could get me killed. But who cares? I’m going to die anyway.

 ‘There could be people who want to reform the Hunger Games.’ It rushes up out of me like hot air. ‘People who have the power to end the killing.’

Something flashes through Finnick’s gaze, and triumph bursts within me.

We sidestep by another couple, and then move apart in time to the music. When we join hands again, I state, ‘ _That’s_ what you were discussing with Johanna the other night, isn’t it. You said you were looking for signs.’ Finnick’s eyes are narrowed, and my heart is pounding fit to burst. ‘You agree with me.’

Finnick pulls me tightly into him as we swirl, and rests our foreheads together. ‘Annie,’ his voice is barely a murmur, his ocean eyes locked onto mine. He holds me to him, poised but an inch apart, and there’s a low swoop in my stomach. ‘Don’t. Remember where we are.’

Then as quickly as he did it, he twirls me away from him once more. And as soon as it’s begun, the dance ends; Finnick bows to me, and I curtsy. There’s some polite clapping from a few of the guests.

I stare at Finnick, dizzy, and waist burning from where his hands had rested.  Finnick is like me. Johanna is like me. There could even be more people out there, more people who want to see a change. _I am not alone._

If I’m right – if Finnick and Johanna are looking for a way to reform the Hunger Games – then I must keep this secret. Reform sounds a lot like opposition, and opposition is not an option. But if it was enough people, important enough people, they could explain themselves so that The President would have to listen. They might really have a chance. Things might really be able to change.

Dancers around us pull back onto the floor as the music changes, leaving Finnick and I standing like islands in a stream.

For the first time since the Choosing Ceremony, something bubbles up inside of me that feels like hope. If I can help Finnick, if only for these few days, then maybe my death won’t be in vain.

And in a moment of wildness, I reach out and take his hand in mine.

‘Annie,’ says Finnick quietly, brow furrowed. ‘Do you – ’

‘Miss Cresta,’ an older woman in a silver pant suit pushes between us, and I blush, dropping Finnick’s hand. It’s Desirée D’Archour, a senator who used to sit in the high cabinet. ‘I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.’ She barely glances at Finnick. ‘Mr Odair, I do hope you don’t mind if I take your tribute off you for a moment.'

‘Not at all,’ says Finnick smoothly. ‘I had hoped to see you at our drinks evening. So sorry you couldn’t make it.’

‘Oh, I could,’ Desirée says, ‘But I deigned not to. You know how frightful they are.’

Finnick’s eyes momentarily widen, and then he grins. ‘I’d forgotten that you don’t take any bullshit.’

‘Indeed, Mr Odair. I do not. And now if you’d excuse us.’ Desirée places a hand on my elbow and gently steers me away. I can’t stop my eyes flickering back to where Finnick’s curious gaze follows us.

‘I prefer the parties to the sponsor evenings,’ Desirée continues, ‘Because there’s more privacy to be had when everyone else is trashed out of their minds. Speaking of which, drink?’

Not entirely sure how else to respond, I accept the glass. This must be my third in half an hour. She pulls us into a niche to one side of the ball room, sheltered from the crowds. I realize that it is a place where we will know at once if we are being overheard.

‘Your team’s assistant, Miss Sepulchre, informed me that a video of your little altercation outside this evening has already gone viral across the holosphere.’

My throat goes dry. How much it is wise to say to an ex-senator whilst tipsy? ‘Viral?’ I squeak.

‘Yes,’ says Desirée. ‘What on earth that woman thought she was doing bringing a datapad to the ball I have no idea.’ She takes a sip of her drink. ‘The important thing is this – a little bird tells me the President has already seen the video. Apparently he was impressed by your little outburst. He thought it very patriotic of you to defend the honor of the Games. Congratulations.’

‘The _President?’_ Something cold clambers up my spine. ‘I – I wasn’t trying to be patriotic. I mean, not more than usual. I don’t want any congratulations.’

‘The President himself is giving you his approval, and you are rejecting his congratulations?’

‘I – no –,’ my head is spinning, heavy from the drink. ‘I – I just wanted to protect Finnick.’

‘Protect Finnick?’ Desirée says. Her grey eyes, are piercing, and I fight not to look away. ‘From what exactly?’

‘I – they were wrong,’ I splutter, ‘They were blaming Finnick for winning the Games, when they should be blaming the Games in the first place. It was cowardly and wrong.’ _Idiot._ ‘Finnick is a good man. I know he is.’ I squeeze my cocktail glass harder. Damn this alcohol for loosening my tongue. To a senator. A _senator –_

‘Good,’ Desirée says curtly, just as I have gathered up the courage to excuse myself.

‘Good?’ I falter.

‘Good, because your passion means I can trust you,’ she says simply. ‘And if you make it through the next two weeks intact, that passion might be something we can use.’

My jaw falls open, but she raises a finger to my lips. ‘Annie, I need you to deliver a message to your mentor. I have reason to believe we have something in common. Tell Finnick that on the third day of the Games, at midday precisely, he is to meet one of my associates at the café opposite the old parliament house. He will know them by the coat they are wearing.’

‘The coat? But – what - ’

‘Annie. You must promise me - _promise_ me - that you will not breathe a word of this message to him until the day of the Games. Until the very last moment you speak with him.’

‘Why?’ I ask, the only word I can extract from the tangle questions in my mind. ‘Why me? Why not tell him now?’

‘Because it’s the only way I can keep him safe until the final moment,’ Desirée whispers. ‘Very soon I am going to be leaving the Capitol. I have reason to believe I may not be returning for a very long time. There is no way for me to pass this message on in future.’

‘I could – but you don’t know me.’ My head is spinning. The room is spinning. ‘I could go and tell someone right now.’

She shrugs. ‘But you won’t. I can see it in your eyes.  And if you are compromised – well.’ She smiles thinly. ‘You already have a death sentence.’

‘You’re one of them,’ I whisper, adrenaline pounding through me. ‘There _are_ more of you. Finnick was right. You’re…’

‘That will be all, Annie Cresta.’ Desirée’s gaze is steel. ‘It was pleasant to become acquainted with you.’

I stare after her, gobsmacked, as she sweeps out of the alcove. I force my jaw to realign with my mouth. I may be drunk. I may have had my world turned up on its head. But I must pretend that nothing has happened. I stare into my half empty glass. As Ambrosia would say, the party must go on.

_Third day. Parliament house. You’ll know him by the coat he wears._

I down the rest of my cocktail.

I meander back across the ballroom floor, colors blurring together and bumping shoulders in the crowd. There’s Finnick and Johanna stood in conversation beside a table of fruit. Johanna is blunt to the point of cruelty, but there’s Finnick relaxed, joking. He lets out a great guffaw and I frown.

_Pull yourself together, Annie_. _She’s his best friend. You’ve known him for a week._

Clearly, I haven’t had enough alcohol to quash my nagging inner voice. I walk towards them, but they move away from me around the edge of the dancefloor, deep in conversation.  Johanna pulls Finnick behind a large urn and into an alcove.

Much like Desirée did to me.

_Perhaps they’re discussing the same thing as the other night._ My stomach jolts with excitement. I slow down and turn towards a table of food so that I can eavesdrop whilst pretending to be absorbed in a cornucopia spilling out an exotic variety of fruits.

‘Why did you choose her, Finnick?' Johanna’s voice is low, but eyes are sharp.

Finnick doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Because she’s weak. The other mentors would have torn her apart. They’d have broken her before she even entered the Arena.’

My hands tighten on the table’s edge.

'She’s making you soft, Finnickins,' Johanna says, 'And that's going to get you killed.'

‘Something was always going to get me killed,’ Finnick says.

‘And what about her, then?’ Johanna says. ‘You’re not going to care when your little sweetpea gets ripped apart in the Arena?’

As far as I can tell, Finnick’s expression does not change. But Johanna’s eyes suddenly narrow. ‘We swore,’ her voice is a hiss, ‘You and I swore together. We swore we would never allow them to do this to us again.’

Finnick swallows. ‘Jo. Stop.’

She shakes her head. ‘I should have known.’

‘There’s nothing to know,’ Finnick says, voice expressionless.

‘Oh yes there is. Your little girl is going to be eaten alive,’ says Johanna in a sing song voice. ‘And then they’re going to see who you are, Finnick. They’re going to see that you’re weak. Because you’re too close. Because you’ve grown _fond.’_

 ‘Hold your mouth,’ Finnick’s voice is a whip crack, ‘Hold your mouth, Johanna Mason.’

For a moment I think Johanna is going to shout at him. But then there’s a moment as they both straighten, glancing around the urn, and throw nods and smiles to the guests who pass by. I shrink down behind a pineapple.

A moment later, Finnick leans in close, lips tight. His voice is light, charming. ‘Do _not_ tell me how I should or should not be training my tribute.’ He reaches out with a slow deliberate motion, to flick some dust from her shoulder. ‘My tribute, _my call_.’

Johanna’s hand snatches his where he had tried to pull it back and holds it, her nails a vice around his wrist. ‘Don’t try and pretend that’s what I was talking about.’ Her voice is bubbly, girlish even.

‘I know _exactly_ what you’re talking about,’ he says simply. ‘You dislike the effort I’m putting into Annie’s training. Which I’m going to ignore.’ He gives a slow smile. ‘I’m going to keep believing in her, even if you think that’s stupid. Because if I won’t believe in her – if her _mentor_ won’t believe in her – then I might as well kill her myself.’

The façade drops. ‘You’re a fucking idiot,’ Johanna snarls. ‘And you know it.’

A vein pulses in Finnick’s neck, smile vanished. Johanna’s jaw is clenched, her face inches from him. ‘You’re a big, fucking idiot,’ she says slowly. Then she starts to smile again, but it’s a real smile. As real as Johanna’s smiles ever get.

It’s not a kind smile.

‘You’re a big, stubborn fucking idiot. _That’s_ why I like you, Finnick.’

She punches him lightly in the shoulder, and I turn away. My knuckles ache from my grip on the table.

I need another drink.

 

***********************************

I don’t want to talk to Finnick any more tonight. I might scream and jump on him. Alternatively, I might cry and jump on him. Both would be terrible. What I’d do after that, I’m not sure. I need more alcohol to block it out – block it all out. All this noise, all these bodies pressing in around me. Finnick’s hands on my waist. The Games –

I stride over to the nearest table of drinks.

‘Annie!’ squeals a voice, and I splash myself with the punch ladle. It’s Ambrosia, almost tripping over her enormous heels, champagne flute in hand. She crushes me into the rippling beeswarm at her bosom, and I turn my face to stop her outfit from crawling into my mouth. ‘Oh Annie, I missed you _so_ much.’

‘Me too,’ I say. Did I only see her a few hours ago? It feels like _foreverrr_. I am overcome with a rush of warmth. ‘I love all the clothes you choose for me. And what you do to my hair. It’s so _bouncy._ You’re the best.’

She pulls away from me. ‘Oh, don’t thank me, honeyplum. I’m only bringing out your natural beauty. Everyone just looks wonderful tonight. So wonderful.’ She brushes at her eyes. ‘You look _gorgeous_.’

‘Thank you,’ I smile. She sounds like she means it, like really _really_ means it. ‘I… _love…_ what you’re wearing too. The bugs. They’re just so…’ I make waving motions with my hands, more punch sloshing onto my wrist ‘… _buggy.’_

‘Oh, thank you honeyplum!’ Ambrosia bats at her beaded hair, which is flashing quickly enough to start its own disco. ‘They were all bred for me, can you believe it? But my hair – oh my goodness. An entire strand of the bulbs died just now, can you believe it. Awful! But then Septimus Rollo, one of 3’s preps, told me he could fix it if I just sat down for a moment and let him have a tinker… and… and see!’ She twirls for me. ‘He made the twinkling even twinklier. So lovely. Such a lovely man. Rather unfashionable, it must be said,’ her eyes glaze over dreamily, ‘But so very lovely.’

‘Oh, Ambrosia!’ I reach out, and almost overbalance. ‘Lovely. That’s _amazing_. Do you like him? Maybe you could tell him you like him, like _like-_ like him.’

Ambrosia grabs my arm with a shriek ‘Annie! Have you _seen_ Ophelia?’ Her eyes fill with tears. ‘Magnificent. Just magnificent. I’m so proud to work beneath her, you know. Just so proud. And she was so late – two whole hours late… ’She wipes at her cheeks, ‘Only Ophelia could pull that off. Only Ophelia. Cordelia Vipointe arrived after one and a half hours, and when she realized she wasn’t the latest she threw her drink at a waiter.’ Ambrosia gives a sob of happiness. ‘It was so beautiful.’

‘Beautiful,’ I repeat, and hiccup. I follow her gaze to where Ophelia sweeps across the floor in a rippling white dress, high-necked with cut-outs at her bosom and both her hips. At the back, two stiffened folds of material fan out in half-circles from her waist to her legs.

‘Wow,’ I breathe. ‘She looks like… like…the lady from that movie… the one with the thing…’

‘She looks like an angel,’ says Ambrosia.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Like an angel. A really…sexy angel.’ I really like the taste of this punch.

Ambrosia giggles. ‘The couple she’s talking to – the ones in aquamarine baubles. That’s Raff Clackmannan, the model, with his wife Charitina Spectral.’ Her voice lowers to a conspiratorial whisper, and I nod seriously. The floor tilts. Uh oh. No more nodding.

‘Last Tributes’ Ball, my friend Laurel Odinshoot – she’s on the District 8 prep team, don’t you know – found Raff behind the topiary with Percival Chlodowech. It’s a wonder his sister was ever Gamemaker. Now wasn’t _that_ a scandal to remember.’ Ambrosia sighs. ‘Oh, Annie. There’s just so many people here I want you to meet.’

I blink, because there are already too many people. My punch glass is empty, so I pour in some more.

At that moment a tall woman with blonde curls and a red dress like an old-world movie star descends the steps to the dance floor. The simplicity of her outfit contrasts with the cacophony of extravagance surrounding her, and the haze across my vision clears for a second. Each step of her feathered heels is precise, her dress folding elegantly with the movement of her legs. She’s devastatingly, dangerously stunning. Just like –

Finnick steps out of the crowd, and assists her down the final step. The woman gives him a sideways smile, and curls an arm around his waist.

‘Who’s that lady?’ I ask.

‘You don’t recognize her? That’s Tanaquila Berenzen,’ Ambrosia says. ‘Definitely one to watch. She’s the twin of the head Gamemaker.’

‘Then…’ my brain is working slowly. Tanawassit laughs, throwing back her head, curls bouncing, and then turns to playfully poke Finnick in the chest, a coy smile on her face. ‘Then what is she doing with Finnick?’

‘Oh,’ says Ambrosia. ‘ _Oh_.’

Like ice cold water has been poured over me, the drunken buzz cuts out. The woman with the perfect hair leans over and kisses Finnick on the mouth.

If I squeeze my glass any harder I fear it may smash. The two of them are weaving their way across the floor, and then the woman, turning her head to speak with someone, catches my gaze. Her eyes narrow.

I do not look away. I will not. _Let go of him. Let him go._

 ‘Maybe we should go, Annie,’ Ambrosia says, giving my arm a little tug.

‘No,’ I say simply, and I stand where I am. Let them come to me. Tanaquila’s strides cut a path through the guests around her, and I do not break eye contact until the point she comes to a stop just in front of me. She is beautiful.

And he is a monster.

‘Finnick, darling,’ she says, ‘I would so love to be introduced to your little mentee.’

‘Tanaquila, this is District 4’s tribute Annie Cresta.’ Finnick’s voice is smooth, even. I can’t bring myself to look at him, because if I do I will lose my self-control. ‘Annie, this is Tanaquila Berenzen.’

‘Of course,’ says Tanaquila, ‘You’re already familiar with my boyfriend, Finnick.’

‘Boyfriend.’ I say the word slowly, as though some part of the word doesn’t quite make sense. It comes out almost as a hiccup.

‘Yes.’ Tanaquila’s voice is light, but her eyes are dull and dark. ‘Boyfriend.’

I say nothing. I have nothing to say. Ambrosia shifts nervously beside me.

‘Tanaquila didn’t realize she was going to come tonight,’ Finnick says. There’s something in his voice, and I can’t help but let my gaze flicker to his. His eyes are earnest, apologetic, and my throat constricts.

‘It was a last minute decision,’ Tanaquila says carelessly. ‘The fuss people like to make over tributes can be rather ridiculous. But when I heard they’d booked out the Cyrenean Caverns…well, I knew I just _had_ to come. And I did so want to meet you before you disappear off into the merry bloodbath.’ Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘Finnick’s told me _all_ about you.’

_Has he._ Finnick looks away, picking up a champagne flute from a passing waiter.

‘Well,’ I say tightly, ‘I hope you enjoy yourself.’

‘You too, little Annie,’ she says. ‘Finnick darling, let’s go and talk to Gliese Plinberg.’ Without a second glance, she sweeps him away, and the breath I didn’t realize I was holding rushes out of me.

Every cell in my body is being tossed in a hot, roiling sea of disgust.

‘You looked like you were about to strangle her,’ Ambrosia whispers, ‘Or possibly asphyxiate yourself.’

‘I…’ I swallow. I’ve never hated another human being before, and it scares me.

‘Forget that utter cow,’ continues Ambrosia. ‘I wish she’d never laid eyes on Finnick. She terrifies me.’ She holds out a glass. ‘Go on, drink your punch.’

I nod, tears prickling my eyes, and down a glass of the smooth, fruity mixture. The warm buzz fills my head again and I smile wetly up at her.

‘There, that’s much better,’ she continues. ‘And now let’s go dance.’

The orchestra is being replaced by a DJ, and the chandelier baubles open up to become spinning disco lights. Ambrosia and Maggie’s friends greet me with squeals and hugs, and we stumble together across the low lit floor. The music pounds in my blood, and then there is only the here and now. Nothing else matters. Nobody else matters. I twist my hands in the air like a dancing girl, and we’re batted this way and that by the press of hot bodies. My bangs begin to stick to my face with sweat. My drink sloshes over my hand in the melee, until I lose my drink entirely. Smoke puffs out from around the dance floor, and we jump and spin and drop to the pounding beat. Ambrosia grins, and I laugh.

I don’t know how long we’ve been dancing when Ambrosia motions that she wants to get another drink. The ballroom won’t stop spinning, and I know I’ve had enough. My tummy feels it too, and I excuse myself to visit the restroom. Staggering my way there is hard. People are buffeting me, the music sounds fuzzy, and my ears hurt. Which way was the door again?

The restroom door shuts out the music with a snap. I lean over the sink and run my hands under the faucet, collecting water to splash my face. The chorus of the last song trips off my lips. Oh look – one of my butterfly’s wings is bent at a silly angle. I giggle, and poke my hair. And that is when Tanaquila walks out from the other cubicles.

I cannot look away from glass in front of me, the predatory reflection of her eyes fixed on mine. She  washes her hands and then slowly fixes her hair. All the while she does not break eye contact. Tanaquila does not blink. My breath comes shallow, and I think I want to vomit.

‘I don’t like you, little Annie,’ says Tanaquila. ‘You’re small and weak.’

I’ve forgotten to turn off the faucet properly. It drips.

‘I see right through that sweet little facade of yours. I know what you want.’ She shrugs. ‘But you can’t have it.’

I swallow. I should reply. I wish I could reply. I’m frozen.

‘When the boy is with me,’ she applies another layer of violent, scarlet lipstick, ‘He is exclusive.’ Her pupils are a dull black. ‘Do you understand?’

In my mind’s eye I see President Snow again, face tiny among the crowd of the stadium, and yet larger than all of them. I’m hot, too hot, but still I shiver.

_I understand perfectly._

Now Tanaquila’s eyes slip past me as though I am simply part of the wallpaper. She gazes at her open lips in the mirror and then leaves. There’s a soft smell of jasmine in the air.

I stand in place, swaying slightly. Other women enter and exit the bathroom. ‘Are you alright, sweetie?’ asks a girl with orange facial tattoos. That’s when I realize that I am crying. I push past her and out into the crush of the ballroom, trembling. I need to escape. I need to escape. I force my way through the crowd to another set of doors, up a flight of steps. I’m getting out right now. I’ll get  Darius to call me a car home if I have to –

I burst out into the cool night onto a wide marble terrace. This is not the way I came in. I hurry down the steps onto a wide lawn, pathways lit by floating lanterns. Still I’m not alone, can’t escape from the people talking and laughing and drinking. Further into the gardens, then. I head through tall winding hedgerows, desperate to leave the pounding noise behind. Leave everything behind. I turn right, then right again. Left. A giggling couple, the man’s tie askew and the girl’s dress falling off her shoulders. They push past me, and disappear once more.

Left three times, and a right. The night is almost silent now. I stumble across a wicker bench sat beneath a little archway. An ornamental fountain tinkles, cupid spraying water from his bow and arrow. I give out a huff of laughter, and plonk down onto the bench. Ganymede was right. These gardens _are_ tasteless.

I am still drunk enough to be warm out here. I don’t need to vomit anymore, but instead I think I’m going to cry.

‘Hey, you,’ says a voice. ‘I hate to pull out the oldest line in the book, but we have to stop meeting like this.’

It’s Jordan from 7, in a long, loose, evergreen shirt over tan trousers.

‘Hey,’ I say weakly.

His smile fades. ‘Something up?’

‘What?’ I brush at my eyes. ‘Oh, no. You know.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ he says, and sits down beside me. ‘It’s this whole thing. The amount of money they must have spent. It’s a bit too much, to be honest.’

‘Just a bit.’ I laugh, which is a bad idea, because it’s a sob that comes out.

‘Hey,’ he turns to me and his eyes are warm. ‘What’s happened? Seriously?’

_Finnick. Tanaquila. Finnick._ I want to go home.

‘It’s silly,’ I whisper, ‘There’s a table of seafood. An entire table. I’ve only ever seen so many on market day back home. But our fish quota is taken for redistribution. I thought it was sent to the poorer Districts, and instead it’s lying there – on that table – where _no-one_ is going to eat it.’

I bite my lip.

I had seen a lady spear a bitterling with a cocktail stick, sniff it, then drop it onto the tray of a passing waiter. She didn’t care. She never had to worry about bad storms, or poor summers. My parents work hard to ensure our family never goes hungry, but in the Capitol, people don’t even know what hungry means.

Jordan scuffs a shoe across the gravel path. ‘It’s getting to me too.’ He huffs out a laugh. ‘Just remember you’re not the only one freaking out.’

‘But what’s the point, Jordan?’ the words burst out of me, almost a cry. ‘What’s the point in making friends when we’re going to end up trying to – to – kill each other?’

Jordan looks at me, fairy lights around us casting pools of shadow under his high cheekbones, the dark hair falling into his eyes. ‘What’s the point of not being friends when this might be the last chance we have to have fun?’ he says softly.

Gently, he takes my hand in his. I blink away tears, because he’s right. This could be the last chance I ever get to make an honest friendship. To sit on a bench, here, under the stars, with a beautiful boy by my side.

'So we're not allowed to talk about the future, okay?’ Jordan’s voice is earnest. ‘Let's just pretend we’re carefree Capitol idiots, who met at this party and got talking with no strings attached.'

I know what Finnick would say. That I can’t trust him. That I should only be friendly to find out as much as I can, to assess his weaknesses, to discover how best to kill him. That all of my smiles should be lies.

But that isn’t me.

'Agreed,' I say, 'No talking of the future.'

We sit in silence, and listen to the soft sounds of distant laughter, to the trickle of the stupid, stupid fountain.

The night air is sweet. I take a deep, shuddering breath, and turn to Jordan. 'Dance with me?'

***********************************

I’m losing myself to the music once again. God knows how late, how early it is anymore. Everything is a dream, a haze, of movement, pounding in my ears. Jordan and I spin through the crowd, hands clasped as though we are each other’s lifeline. Flickering lights illuminate couples gyrating around us, arms around each other’s necks, bodies pressed together, some falling backwards into the crowd with the force of their embraces, eyes shut in drunken ecstasy. I throw out my arms and spin, eyes shut. It was so loud before, but now it’s just numb. I am floating alone in a strobe-lit dream.

Then I am knocked off balance.

Arms catch me before I fall, pull me up close. Where’s Jordan? I look into a pair of sea-green eyes.

‘Finnick,’ I say simply. I lean into him, and he leans over me, his arms around my waist, hands cupping my hips. My breath catches, and warmth pools in my gut. We aren’t dancing. We stand in our own bubble of silence. Lights dance across the slash of glitter paint tracing down his face and along his jaw He leans forward to rest his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.

 ‘Finnick,’ I murmur, making to pull away. ‘Where’s …’ But I don’t finish, stopped because my hand is caught in his.

‘Stay,’ he murmurs.

Maybe if I was sober I would be able to extract myself, tell myself that I am immune to this _thing_ that he does. The Finnick Odair thing.

But I am not immune. And so I allow him to slowly pull me back towards him, until his breath is warm on my upturned face. Until I can feel his heartbeat, and I am looking into his eyes, somehow dark now, like rain on a distant sea.

He gives a low chuckle, and I know he felt my heart skip, because my whole body lights like a match he touches me. His hands are gentle through the material of my dress as he runs his fingers up my waist, and he leans in, inexorably slowly.

I can’t think.

I could never have imagined this happening, and yet now, in this whirling, impossible night, perhaps I can. His lips trace down my cheek, millimeters from my skin. Then Finnick turns my head gently, to kiss me.

There’s alcohol on his breath. And suddenly I don’t want it.

_Not like this._

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, turning my face away so that his lips brush my jaw. ‘I’m sorry.’

Finnick pauses, his lips beside mine. I swallow, and take a step back. Then he pulls back too, hands falling to his sides, and there are arms pulling him away and I am alone. Alone spinning on the ballroom floor.

***********************************

I cannot sleep once again. I don’t even make it into bed. I lie on a sofa, staring up at the ceiling as the pale shadow of day creeps across the sky, turning it the dull blue of dawn. I think of nothing. Nothing at all. Aftershocks of the music ring in my ears. I can still feel the heat of Finnick’s body against my skin.

A door slides open, and I sit up.

_Tanaquila_. ‘You have an Avox,’ I say. It’s not a question.

Low lights flicker on, illuminating the shape in the doorway to the flat. He no longer has a jacket. On his neck there’s a bruise blossoming, and the scent of jasmine hangs on the air.

‘His name is Darius,’ says Finnick. ‘He is my manservant.’

‘I know.’ I say.

‘Are you judging me?’

‘You think I’m judging because you – ’ Heat rises in my face. She’s run her hands through that hair of his, as he ran his fingers down her back, undoing the clasps of her dress. And it slips out of me, biting. ‘I thought that you of all people would know what it’s like to be enslaved.’

‘Me of all people,’ says Finnick slowly. His mouth is a thin line. ‘Ophelia’s been telling you stories.’

‘I know they aren’t stories, Finnick.’

Finnick turns away, the line of his shoulders is tense. My stomach sinks, a dull pain beginning at the back of my head.

‘Finnick, I’m sorry,’ I say softly. ‘I’m sorry I mentioned it, and I’m sorry that I – ’

‘I am not their slave,’ Finnick snarls. ‘And I am not their _whore_.’

I jerk backwards as he spits the slur. It’s a cruel word, an empty word. ‘Finnick,’ there are tears in my eyes as I step up off the sofa. ‘Finnick, I know what you did to help me. Oh god, Finnick, the pool of water. You cannot be worth a pool of water. You’re –’ My voice cracks, ‘You’re nineteen. You’re nineteen years old.’

Finnick raises an eyebrow. ‘You needed to get the score. It doesn’t matter what I did.’

‘ _No,’_ I cut my hand through the air, ‘It matters. I can’t let you. Not for me. Not ever again.’ I shake my head from side to side. ‘I won’t let you do that. I won’t let them do that to you.’

He lets out a bark of laughter, and a furious heat rushes through my cheeks. ‘You think anyone has a choice in this?’ he snarls. ‘You think I’ve _ever_ had a choice?’

I swallow through my tears, staring up at him. My voice is a whisper. ‘How long?’

His voice is expressionless. ‘Since I won.’

‘You were fourteen,’ I whisper. ‘You were a child.’

Finnick says nothing, the line of his jaw no harsher than before, the green of his eyes no bleaker. It is I who am shaking, me who is about to break.

‘This is the way things are, Annie,’ he says simply, ‘This is how the Capitol makes it. This is who I am.’

And I realize now that all my tears of pity are worthless. So I brush at my eyes, to try and stop them, and walk towards him instead, to fold my arms around his motionless body. There is nothing I can say, and so I pull him to me, sounding out all my rage, all my fear, all my care for him in one fierce embrace.

‘This time there was a choice,’ I whisper, ‘And I can’t live with that choice. I’m not worth it, Finnick.’ I swallow, squeezing my eyes shut. ‘I would rather die than let you do that for me again.’

We stand this way, and Finnick rests his head on my shoulder, his breathing shallow. ‘They killed Johanna’s family,’ he says softly. ‘They asked her to do what I do, and she refused. So then they killed them.’

_Oh god._

I stare over his shoulder at the thousands of lights below us, out the window, across the plains and beyond into the night. I can only squeeze him tighter, my tears dampening his open collar.

_This_ is the world we live in. The sickly, hollow, gilded and glittering world of the Capitol. This is the world we live in.

Long live Panem.

 

***********************************

Finnick and I are silent as we eat breakfast together. My skin is clammy and my head aches. There are dark circles under Finnick’s eyes. Yet more than that, something intangible has changed between us. I can sense it in the way he moves, suddenly out of kilter in our interactions where before he was effortless. Maggie and Ganymede are as spotlessly made up as ever, eyes tired but bright as they yawningly chose food from the buffet. I smile wanly at Darius as he places down the final dish. ‘Thanks, Darius. It looks delicious.’ He nods, and touches my arm gently before vanishing back into the unseen corridors of the penthouse.

‘Have you _seen_ the newsfeeds this morning?’ Ambrosia’s voice is muffled, but not for long. The doors to the dining room burst open and she unceremoniously drops a pile of papers and magazines onto the table in front of my bowl of cereal. ‘I actually got paper copies. _Paper copies_ of the mags, honeyplums, because it is _so_ exciting. The man in the shop couldn’t believe me when I said I wanted one of each. He thought I was joking.’

I wince, and rub my temple. For the life of me I cannot fathom how she doesn’t feel as awful as the rest of us.

Ambrosia lifts up the first magazine from the pile, waving her hands with excitement. ‘Look. Front page of _Velvet_. The headline: _Finnick’s White Knight_!’

It’s me on the red carpet, mouth open mid shout as Finnick tries to pull me away. I am a little less hungry all of a sudden. Maggie shuffles over and pages through the magazines, cooing quietly. ‘Look, Cherie Morningstar wrote an entire column on the two of you – Panem’s next power couple.’

‘Oh yes,’ Ambrosia gives a tiny skip of glee. ‘An entire column! That’s how you know you’ve truly made it. Nobody cares that it’s all silly, the publicity is what counts. The Capitol has gone mad about you. Utterly mad, I’m telling you.’

I have to put down my spoon, because the yoghurt in my mouth tastes sour.

Maggie holds up a full page spread. ‘Look, Max Milton says Annie as ‘tougher than her innocent, feminine façade suggests.’ That isn’t even the best part. You two are top of Frequency trending, you’ve overtaken that fight between the twins from 11 _and_ 1’s boy getting found in a bush with his stylist last night. Oh, and Landan O’Hara’s new GM puppy red carpet shoot hasn’t even made the top ten. Oh lord, he _will_ be furious.…’

Finnick isn’t eating, but he isn’t listening either, he’s staring at an abstract painting on the wall to his left.

 ‘And…’ here Ambrosia picks up a vast broadsheet which falls open, spilling inserts across the table, and into a bowl of banana yoghurt. ‘You even made it into the Panem Eagle. Look, there’s the photo of you, underneath that boring political fraud trial. Tagline: ‘ _Doomed romance_?’’

She trails off. And then she quietly refolds the papers and mags, and pushes them to one side. Maggie sits back down and starts to cut up a banana.

‘Well,’ Ambrosia says. ‘I’m sure you two must be very tired from last night. I shan’t bother you with any more of all that. It’s all just silly gossip anyway. Silly me, bringing it up as usual…’

I look back down at my bowl, unsure quite why I want to cry.

‘Annie, you’ve got a big day ahead. It’s your interview today.’ The brightness is back in Ambrosia’s voice. ‘Time to come and get ready!’

I have to push the rest of my food away – maybe I fit in in the Capitol after all. I look to Finnick, hoping for a word of encouragement. But he is frowning at the fork which he spins on its prongs on the tablecloth. The Finnick of last night, open and unguarded, is teetering on the edge of something. Then he smacks down the fork.

Finnick the Mentor is back.

‘Your interview,’ he says, ‘Ambrosia’s proven you’ve got it already in the bag, but don’t get too complacent. This is the most important moment of the preparation.’ He holds my gaze, but I can’t see anything in his eyes. ‘Make them feel for you, but make sure you stay strong too.’

I was expecting friendship, not this distant, condescending advice. Not since he placed his hands on my hips as we danced, sea eyes drowning me, skin alive where his lips grazed mine, almost, almost…

He doesn’t know. Perhaps he doesn’t even remember. We were both drunk, after all.

So I nod. He tilts his head towards me in return, and that’s it.

***********************************

How can I talk in front of a crowd of a thousand? I’ve already had an interview, but that was with Finnick. This time, I will be alone, no-one else for me to bounce off, to make me feel comfortable. Simply me, and the needle pains of my prickling thoughts.

Ophelia scrutinizes every inch of my body, turning me gently. Then she gives a small nod, satisfied, and the rest of my prep team pull back without a word. Ganymede rolls forward a floor length mirror. Ophelia smiles gently. ‘Look at yourself, Annie.’

The dress is a sleeveless halter neck of soft turquoise chiffon which clutches round my waist before sweeping downwards. The color runs into blue and purple strips which trail and float between my legs, revealing my thighs as I walk. The shoes are silver, with higher heels than I’ve ever worn before. There are clear crystal gems in my ears, refracting the light like water so that rainbows swim in their depths.

The girl in the mirror is not someone I recognize. She is something ethereal, something born of the sea. I swallow.

‘You’re like a mermaid,’ Ambrosia sighs. ‘Annie, you’re beautiful.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, because I know that this is the greatest gift my prep team can give me.

The power of beauty.

‘I can’t bear to let you go,’ says Maggie, hands hovering as though she wishes to pat my hair but knows she oughtn’t, ‘You’re perfect. Are you sure we can’t travel in the same –‘

‘No,’ says Ophelia firmly, ‘You will wait in the lobby.’

Maggie pouts.

‘We’ll be watching for you, Annie,’ says Ganymede, ‘And we’ll break out the champagne on your behalf.’

‘We’re saving the champagne,’ Ambrosia cuts in, ‘for when Annie comes off stage.’ She smiles. ‘With super high ratings, of course.’

I take Shelleysticks with me.

It’s not such a long drive in the car, and with Ophelia by my side for some reason I can’t bring myself to talk. She doesn’t question me, although she must have seen the holomags this morning, seen what they thought.

He was definitely drunk. I was very, _very_ drunk. But I can no longer deny the clutch in my chest I get when he gives me that smile, that Finnick smile, and part of me is learning to hate it for the heat it sends through the rest of my body. I don’t know what he’s thinking or what I’m thinking. But I do know what I’m feeling, although I don’t know how it began.

Because it isn’t just lust. If it was, I would have taken that kiss at the party.

_Presumptuous, aren’t you, Annie_. _Saving yourself for something that won’t even notice as it passes you by._

Today, my voice sounds an awful lot like Tanaquila.

‘Annie,’ says Ophelia eventually, ‘I know my team have been very enthusiastic about the slant the magazines are taking. But more publicity is only good publicity if that’s all it is. _Publicity_. Both of you need to be careful.’

I bite my lip, and resist the urge to place my hands over my face.

Arriving at the studio, we are driven directly through and into a side entrance to entirely avoid paparazzi. An elevator whisks us up into the skyscraper, where my heels click on the marble flooring of a grand corridor. A slim figure falls into step beside me.

‘Oh, they’re _all_ talking about you, of course,’ Johanna says, continuing a conversation I didn’t realize had been begun.

I continue to walk forward, ignoring her. Ophelia moves slightly closer, answering for me. ‘I’m afraid we don’t quite know what you’re talking about, Miss Mason.’

‘Finnick Odair and his pretty little tribute, of course. Well,’ her eyes flick up and down me, ‘Sexiest little tribute now, I suppose. You two are everyone’s favorite story.’

I clench my hands together. I remember his fingers interlocking with mine, every time he glanced in my direction, even though he never meant it that way. The ache inside of me as I thought he was about to kiss me. He was drunk. We were drunk. He is Finnick Odair, the golden, glorious Victor. I am Annie Cresta, terrified tribute of District Four.

‘There’s nothing going on between us,’ I say flatly. ‘I’m done with this.’

Her lips pull into what on anyone else could be a grin. On Johanna it looks feral. ‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is whether they think there is, and how you’re going to use that to your advantage.’

I blink, almost missing a step. Is _Johanna Mason_ trying to help me?

‘You think I should lie to their faces?’

‘Annie,’ she says sharply, ‘You’ll do whatever it damn well takes to get the Capitol on your side. And if lying through your teeth is what it’s going to take to keep you alive, then so be it.’

We come to a stop, and I shake my head. ‘I don’t know that Finnick would want me to lie about him.’

Johanna raises her eyebrows. ‘What Finnick wants is for you to not be dead.’

I turn to face her, a question on my lips. But she is already pulling away. Ophelia gives my hand a squeeze as Johanna falls back silently through a pair of double doors.

‘Johanna can be cruel,’ she says simply, ‘But she’s normally right.’

My heart thuds in my chest. _Whatever it damn well takes._ ‘What about Tanaquila?’ I say. ‘What about… the President?’

 ‘The President has been playing this game since before either of us was born.’ Her eyes meet mine, dark, hard. ‘If all you’re doing is lying, Annie, then you have nothing to worry about.’ She smiles slowly. ‘And I can take care of Tanaquila.’

I stare after her retreating back until two stage members appear through another door. They usher me through a lobby to where all the tributes stand in line, waiting to be called onstage. The knot of panic in my chest grows tighter. There’s a rumble in the distance, the rumble of a thousand waiting voices.

Cashmere’s dress is all sleek lines, clinging to her slender figure. Kayn’s leather jacket hangs to his knees. Ettie Lam wears a vibrant, red satin gown buttoned high at the side of her neck. Clyde wears a thick, white knitted jumper. He could be on the cover of any fashion mag in the Capitol. Fannia is plump and pretty in blue. Quiver wears a puffy ballerina skirt. Epiphany has a feathered fascinator perched on one side of her forehead, lending glamour to the cutting lines of her face.  They have dressed Jet Steer in a tuxedo. He is too young for it. He is just too young.

‘Wouldya look at that,’ murmurs Jupiter Sable. His head tilts at the same time as his sister’s. Do they do that on purpose? ‘It’s the future Mrs Odair.’

I turn my face away from them, and twist my brother’s doll in my fingers. Hush falls over our little lobby, and the first tribute is called through the final doorway. Small screens lining our walls show Caesar Flickerman’s blaring smile, waiting beyond.

Halcyon climbs onto the stage. His legs only just touch the ground when he sits. The audience roars.

We wait in line.

_‘I kill anyone who calls me Fifi.’ Ephiphany smiles out brightly at the thousand faces, and then she laughs. ‘Only joking. That’s what everyone at the academy calls me.’ She leans into Caesar, face snapping out of the smile. ‘But if you call me Fifi, I’ll kill you.’ Nervous laughter._

I bite my lip.

_Indigo displays his arm muscles to the audience with relish._  

Ophelia’s words churn in my mind. Matteo taps the floor incessantly with his foot until Ettie gives him a sharp jab in the back.

_‘I suppose I could have become a model,’_ _Cashmere’s doe eyed gaze does not mask her biting intelligence. ‘But this way you get much greater fame and fortune.’_

How am I to lie when I’m not even sure of the truth?

_‘My goal is to become the Games’ first ginger Victor,’ quips Iberis, tugging on his collar._

‘Miss Cresta,’ hisses a stage hand, ‘You’re on next.’

I follow him through the doors, round a corner and up a short flight of steps. A low roaring sound growing louder and I realize that it’s applause. _Strong, calm and poised._ Each step takes me hours so that I don’t fall off of my heels, and then I’m out into the thunder and whistles of the bright, hot, auditorium.

‘My dear Miss Cresta,’ Caesar Flickerman is even shorter in real life, shouting to be heard over the crowd. He takes my hand, dry and puffy, and as I sit down on the sofa the tail ends of my dress flutter and ripple to land softly around my legs.

_Strong._ There’s not much of a smile on my face, in fact, my lower lip is trembling.

_Calm._ I force my clenched fists to unwind in my lap.

‘Might I start by saying that your outfit is simply delightful,’ says Caesar, ‘You could almost have come straight out of the sea.’

‘Thank you. That’s wh – ’ it comes out as a squeak. _Poised._ I clear my throat. ‘That’s what I thought.’ I look down at my hands, ‘I’d never left the sea before this week. So I guess you could say I have.’

There’s a murmur from the audience, faces a blackened void in the floodlights.

‘Annie,’ says Caesar, ‘we already have messages of support pouring in from our audience across the nation. There are a lot of people out there who absolutely adore you. And you have more you’re your fair share of admirers, too. So,’ he raises his eyebrows pointedly, ‘Annie from-the-sea, do you have someone waiting for you back home in District 4?’

I’ve seen how Caesar runs his interviews with his too white smile. I know how he coaxes the answers from the tributes that they would never normally have given. This is not like the interview the other day. The lights are too bright, and I know I’m being played.

My palms are sweaty. I’ve never been good at lying, and I don’t know which side I’m lying for. So I don’t lie.

 ‘No,’ I say.

‘The answer we’d all been hoping for.’ Caesar turns around to give a grin to the audience, as though they are in on something I am not. But I understand them all too well.

‘Annie, we all loved the joint interview you did with Finnick the other day.’ A few whoops from the audience ‘You really came out of your shell. And in fact, last night we saw a fiery side to you which I don’t think any of us suspected.’

_Weak little Annie Cresta._ ‘Because I’m little,’ I say, with a sad smile. ‘And scared.’

Ophelia is outside, watching me, waiting with my whole team.  I owe it to my team to make this work.

I owe it to myself.

 ‘Well,’ I say, my voice sounding small, ‘Being little and scared didn’t stop Johanna Mason.’

Flickerman guffaws, and the whole audience with him, though it wasn’t supposed to be funny. In fact, I don’t think it was funny at all.

‘Annie, I’m going to be honest, we’re all dying to hear the truth behind the gossip that’s been flying around the Capitol this last week. I want to know exactly what happened last night.’ Caesar leans forward, and my stomach lurches. ‘We want to know about your altercation on the red carpet.’

‘I was just trying to protect Finnick,’ I say, the slightest quaver in my voice. There’s an itch on my shoulder and my thighs are too hot.

‘Ahh,’ says Flickerman, raising his eyebrows with a knowing smile. ‘I _see.’_

I don’t see, and then very suddenly I do. _It wasn’t like that._ But the more I speak the more I will give away.

‘Finnick’s from your part of the district, isn’t he?’ says Flickerman. ‘A little bird tells me that you knew each other as children.’ There’s a soft sigh from the audience.

‘Not really.’ Every answer is doubly guarded now.

Flickerman’s smile doesn’t falter, and the audience is silent, hanging on to every word.

‘I’m sure there are thousands of girls out there very jealous of you, having the Capitol’s favorite bachelor attend to you this past week.’

‘How can they be jealous,’ I say warily, ‘When they know where I’m going?’

 ‘Annie,’ Caesar’s eyes are warm. ‘Surely you have some sort of regard for him?’

‘He’s my mentor,’ I say hopelessly. ‘I’m very…grateful to him.’ I wince internally.

‘You trust him, then,’ says Flickerman, earnest now.

‘Of course I trust him,’ I say, ‘I trust him with my life. He’s…’

_The nation is watching. Finnick is watching._

‘Go on,’ says Flickerman, leaning closer.

 ‘I know the way he’s portrayed –’ I stutter. ‘How he seems to everyone – that’s one side of him. But it’s not the whole of him. He’s so much more than that.’ I do not even dare to blink, bolt upright in my chair, Shelleysticks cutting into my clenched palms. ‘He’s a good man.’

The audience is utterly silent now.

‘Annie.’ Caesar’s voice is soft, coaxing. ‘We’ve gone head over heels for your story. We’re clinging to the pages of _Velvet_ like limpets – my wife and I have to buy separate copies.’ More soft chuckles from the audience. ‘But we want to know the _real_ you. The real story of Annie and Finnick.’

He speaks the way you might talk to a frightened animal, or a child. Yet I am neither of those things.

‘So, my dear, is there something you’d like to tell us?’

I know what I should say, and I know what I could say. But Finnick has been protecting me, and I am terrified that at this moment I will fail to protect _him_. I turn my head so I know that I am facing the nearest camera, so that my gaze will stare out across a hundred thousand holoscreens across Panem. At Tanaquila. At President Snow.

Rumors are the lifeblood of the Capitol, and giving life to this rumor could save my own. Or could sign Finnick’s death warrant. Lie, said Ophelia. _Lie._

But I’ve never been very good at lying. And so, instead, I tell them the truth.

‘Finnick is one of the greatest people I have ever met.’ I feel a rush of adrenaline saying the words out loud, my hands loosening in my lap. ‘He has integrity, after everything he’s been through, he…’ my throat sticks, and I close my eyes for a moment. When I open my eyes, my voice is low, but my gaze towards the cameras doesn’t falter. ‘Even had anything developed between us in such a short space of time, he would _never_ betray the trust of his position to become involved with a tribute like me. And I would never be so presumptuous as to get involved with my mentor.’ 

_I would never be so presumptuous as to get involved with one of the President’s most prized assets. Believe me. Believe me, because it’s true._

_Don’t hurt him._

The audience is utterly silent.

‘But that isn’t how you feel,’ says Caesar gently, ‘Is it, Annie.’

My make-up sits hot and heavy on my face, and I blink. I try to speak, but nothing comes out. And nothing is all the answer they need.

‘Well,’ says Caesar after a moment, voice soft, ‘This certainly is a revelation.’

My heart thuds dully inside my chest.  I say nothing, because I’m not giving them anything more. The whole of Panem is watching this. Finnick is watching this. They all know, but my humiliation means nothing next to the fear that I have overstepped the line and put him in danger.

After what seems like an age, Caesar speaks again. ‘Annie, my dear, we’re running out of time. I’d like to close on a very different note. If your family were here right now, what would you say to them?’

I look out at the bright lights over the audience, and now my eyes really are full of tears.

‘I want you to know that I love you. I love you all so much.’ I shake my head. ‘Marcus, I’m sorry if I won’t be your best big sister any more. But Finny, don’t you worry,’ my voice breaks. ‘I promise I’m taking good care of Shelley.’ For a moment, I uncurl my fingers. Just for a moment, so Finn can see that I’ve got her and I’m holding her tight.

I have only moments left, moments with the whole of Panem at my feet. And though my chest is tight with fear, I know I have to say it. What I’ve spent the twelve hours churning endlessly over in a secret corner of my mind, endlessly preparing and rewriting. If I put Finnick in danger a moment ago, I could do far, far worse with what I’m about to say. But still I have to say it.

‘I don’t want to die.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Mr President, sir, if you’re listening. We love Panem. We, the people love our nation, and we are grateful. The Games don’t have to be about killing. They could be about more – coming together. The Games could change. I know they can change.’ My face crumples. ‘Mothers and fathers in the Capitol, you love your children too. I know you could all understand how much it hurts.’

I don’t remember leaving the stage until I am tripping over the final step. The other tributes’ faces are blurred masks, and I do not give a damn that all of them can see my tears. There’s a roaring in my ears which drowns out the sound of the audience, on their feet, applause rippling over me like thunder.

I leave via the double doors, where my prep team stand in silence. Ambrosia’s hands are pressed over her mouth. Ganymede holds the unopened champagne.

‘Annie,’ Maggie whispers, ‘That was incredible.’

‘Oh, honeyplum,’ Ambrosia enfolds me in a hug. ‘I thought I was going to be cheering,’ she hiccups, ‘And here I am crying, and all over your beautiful make up too. Nobody saw that coming at the end. Nobody.’

‘That was perfect,’ says Ganymede, and wipes at the corner of his eye, ‘Just perfect. Your support will go through the roof.’

Back in District 4 I would have thought my prep team were silly and shallow. But here, now, I know that they really do care.

Over Ambrosia’s shoulder I see Ophelia, standing behind. Her lips are thin, and something sickening uncoils in my stomach.

‘Where’s Finnick?’ I ask.

Ophelia doesn’t answer. The double doors at the end of the corridor swing for a moment, as though pushed in the motion of somebody leaving.

 

***********************************

 ‘The girl is a fool,’ Aenon was snapping at Shona as my team from the interview. ‘What does she think she’s doing, courting political dissent days before she enters the Arena? Not every Capitol snob will appreciate her attempt to tug on their heartstrings. Does she have a death wish?’

Less than three days now.

I had to force myself to eat these past two nights, but I still cannot sleep. My body and mind are poised on a knife edge. Even when I slip into exhausted sleep I awake shivering in cold sweat, nightmares fading into the back of my mind before I can catch them, where they lie in wait for the next moment I fall asleep.

Last night I sat on a couch in the living room, staring aimlessly at the lights through the great glass window. I said nothing when Darius emerged from the darkness and came to sit beside me, and placed his hand lightly over mine. We sat like this for hours, and afterwards when he finally left, I slept just a little.

Tonight, I don’t sleep either.

The apartment has fallen dark and silent, and I lie in my bed, watching endless newsreels from the day, stomach lurching at any mention of District 4, and twisting in a combination of excitement and dread at my name. I flick to a familiar chat show with a photo of me in my dress projected on a screen behind the panelists on their t-shaped sofa. I guess Aenon was wrong; people do seem to have enjoyed my interview.

_‘I just wept after she spoke,_ _’ says_ _Samhain O’Costa, ‘It touched me just so much.’_

_‘Especially that little addition about her parents,’_ _adds Balthazar Fairbain, ‘What a poignant moment. It makes one realize what a noble sacrifice families in the Districts make.  ’_

_‘Yes,’ Samhain agrees, ‘And those words tapped the heart of why it is we celebrate the Games in the first place. Oh I honestly believe, the Games this year have been more exciting than ever, and the best part hasn’t even begu -’_

I turn off the holo-screen, stomach sick. No matter how loud you scream, no-one is really listening.

Throwing the remote aside, I lurch to my feet. Down the halls, I count the dark doorways in threes as I pass. One, two, three. Annie, Marcus, Finn. One, two, three.

_Three days to live. Three days until you die, Annie. Three, two, one._

_Three days, Annie-can’t-kill. Three. Two._

_One._

I clap my hands over my ears, but the voice in my head is louder when I’m alone. I press back against the wall of the corridor, eyes screwed tight, and now I notice another voice. Finnick’s voice. Finnick who still won’t look at me straight. I know Finnick’s voice will help the voice in my head fade, so I let it wash over me, soothing. He’s speaking to someone just behind this wall.

I peer through the crack where the door beside me hasn't quite closed, keeping my breathing soft and shallow.

‘What did you see that we didn’t?’ Johanna’s eyes are bright and sharp.

I’ve been here before. I’ve overheard this conversation before, but it’s different this time.

Finnick’s eyes are almost glassy in the light of the holoscreen. ‘I don’t know,’ he says softly.

A snort. ‘Sure you don’t.’

‘Whatever you think of her, that interview has her face over every holoscreen in the country. where they’ll never be able to forget her. She – made them feel something. She’s not a disaster. I’m telling you, she’s in with a chance.’

My fingers squeeze the edge of the doorframe.

‘I don’t give a shit that she looks cute when she cries,’ Johanna hisses from the holoscreen, ‘I don’t give a shit if she made every last farmer in Panem _‘feel something’_. That interview was a disaster. Who the fuck do you think they’ll imagine put those ideas into that head, Finnickins? It was a disaster. You know it, Finnick.’

 ‘No,’ says Finnick, ‘No, I don’t.’

Johanna makes a noise that sounds like a suppressed scream. ‘ _Finnick._ You need to stop this. Stop it now. Annie is dead. She will never be like us. She’s just a little girl, a whole little girl who’s dead. But if you don’t stop this she will get _you_ killed. She will get both of us killed.’

Finnick is silent.

‘Finnick,’ Johanna’s voice gives a low quiver. ‘Say to me that you didn’t tell her. You swear to me right now that everything she said came out of her deluded, girly little mind.’

Finnick still doesn’t speak. Suddenly, Johanna’s eyes widen.

‘Oh my god,’ she says softly. ‘I actually get it now.’

‘No,’ says Finnick, ‘You don’t.’

‘Oh I do.’ Johanna is shaking her head, her face white. ‘At the party I thought – I never dreamed you could be this stupid, this _selfish_. We promised. We _swore –‘_

‘They need me alive, and they need me on their side,’ says Finnick, as though repeating a mantra. ‘And the same will go for Annie if she lives.’

‘How dare you,’ Johanna’s lips pull back into a snarl, ‘How dare you pretend you’re untouchable, Finnick? After everything – everything I’ve– how fucking _dare_ you?’

I can see the whites all the way around Johanna’s eyes. My dry throat clicks as I swallow during the silence.

Finnick slowly inclines his head. ‘Jo.’ His voice is low. ‘In three days… this will all be over. Forgotten.’

Something between rage and triumph flickers in Johanna’s gaze. ‘Don’t you ever forget it, Finnick Odair.’

I don’t wait to hear any more. I just manage to clamp my hand over my mouth to hide the sob, but I’m already running fast back down the corridor. _You stupid. So stupid. You’re going to die, going to die Annie_

_Forgotten._ That is all I am. That one words rips out every seed of hope that has taken root within me over the past few days. But those roots must have run deeper than I realized, because oh god, the tearing hurts, and it all spools out of me in one ragged, agonizing coil.

_Three two one three two one three_

 

_Three_

_Two_

***********************************

We did not speak over breakfast. I have nothing to say to him. He knows how I feel, because how can he not feel the pressing weight of the emotions which I carry around, tangled about my body? Of all the things – being ripped from my home, my family, being given a week to live – it is this emptiness between us which has left me utterly hollow.

_Two_

I stare at my empty breakfast bowl, my eyes wide, the wide that they can only be after a ferocious lack of sleep, and my mind still repeating it, over and over again:

_Two_

I am too tired to eat.

It’s pathetic how now that the illusion is smashed I cannot even try. It is even more pathetic that I believed it in the first place.

‘Annie,’ says Finnick, and nudges a bowl of fruit in my direction. ‘You have to eat something.’

‘Two.’

Finnick’s gaze is questioning. I realize I have spoken without meaning to, and push away the fruit. ‘Two days until the Arena.’

Finnick shakes his head. ‘Don’t count the days Annie.’ His eyes are deep, deep green and he isn’t trying to give advice. ‘Please don’t count the days.’

‘I can’t not.’

Of course I have been counting the days. I have been numbering each one as it passed, as though if I dragged at the flow of time with my own desperation I could slow it down. Reverse it. Stop it.

Of course I have been counting the days. Now I am counting the hours.

Finnick’s reaches out, across the table, as though he’s about to take my hand. Then his fingers flutter down to tap on the table cloth.

Of course. He doesn’t need me taking any more affection the wrong way.

‘You have two days,’ says Finnick, and it’s like he didn’t hear me. If he’s about to give me a speech, I don’t want it. I’ve been hearing speeches from him all week. I’ve been hearing lies all week. ‘Two days… and….’ I grudgingly meet his eyes. They’re wide. They’re oceans.

God, I don’t want his sympathy.

And then his facade snaps back into place.

‘We need you to be at your strongest when you enter the Arena. Mentally strongest. Physically strongest. Annie, you need to eat.’

Mechanically, because I do not care either way, I reach out to take a banana.

‘You look exhausted.’

‘That’s because I can’t sleep.’

He is silent for a minute. ‘I can help with that, Annie. There are things I can do to help you. I’m doing my job. I am here…. To help you.’

My lips twitch. Ironic smile. ‘Sure.’

Finnick breathes out, a long, slow breath, and he looks so weary.

‘I can help you.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘We’re going to train. Then we’re going to look at the tributes, consolidate our knowledge. Then you’re going to go to bed early tonight.’

‘That won’t help.’

‘You can try.’

‘Why even bother,’ I slowly shred the edge of my napkin, ‘When it’ll all be over in three days? Forgotten.’

My eyes flick to his. Finnick opens his mouth, automatic rebuttal already in place. But then he stops. His jaw clenches.

Then he breaks my gaze, nods to himself, and swallows.

 ‘I don’t blame you,’ I say simply, and it’s emotionless, ‘Like you say, you were just doing your job.’

Finnick stares at me across the table, something blunted in his eyes. Then he slams his hand down. ‘No,’ he says, ‘No, I was not just doing my job.’

With one sharp tug he shoves his chair back from the table, and marches round towards me. I stand, stumble away from him, but he’s already in front of me, over me, and I can smell his scent all over again, sharp like pine, and something deeper, like salt, like – like – bracken on the shore –

I will not look at him. I will not.

‘I’m not doing this just because it’s my job, Annie. I’m doing this because I’m your friend.’ He does take one of my hands this time. Then the other. ‘God, Annie,’ his voice is barely a whisper. ‘I barely know you. But I care about you.’

On the first day, Finnick became a lifeline to a drowning girl in an unfamiliar sea. And now I’m drowning once again. Ophelia is something else than I, and my prep team – I love my prep team – could never see things the way I see.  And yet in this boy, this killer, this god to the fisher girls and the small people of home, I found someone who I understood.

And so I cannot meet his eyes. Because if I do I’ll crumble.

‘And I’m not going to give up on you,’ he says softly, ‘Not while you’re still here. Not ever.’

I’m staring at the wall over his shoulder, my eyes slightly damp, my hands limp in his. His touch is gentle.

‘Annie,’ he says, and swallows. ‘Please.’

Perhaps I no longer care if I live or die. But even if it cannot last more than two days, I do not want to lose his friendship.

I turn my eyes to meet his, and they’re just as devastating as I knew they would be. More than anything I want to sink into his arms, let them envelop me, until I am gone and none of this ever matters again. But I know it’s taking enough for him to reach out to me right now, and I cannot dare to take anything more from him.

He gives my hands a gentle squeeze.

‘Half an hour,’ he says, ‘And then meet me in the gym.’

***********************************

 ‘To your left!’ Finnick comes from the right, and I spin just in time to miss the full brunt of his swing. He pulls at the last minute but I still tumble back onto the mat, a new bruise blossoming.

‘Right!’ This time he does come from the right, but I manage to dodge as I scramble backwards and onto my feet. ‘Nice. You’re reading body language.’

He’s back to training mode again. But at the same time, the firm, businesslike exterior is gone. When he gives me orders now it’s as friend to friend, as equal to equal. However, he never gets close. Never too close. He won’t make that mistake again.

We ‘spar’ – him throwing attacks at me, which I try and generally fail to repel – for another two minutes. Finnick comes to a stop, panting, and runs a hand through his hair which makes it stick up on end. He laughs. ‘Gods, even I’m worn out after that.’

My chest is heaving too, but maybe I’m imagining it, maybe, just maybe a little less than it would have been on the first day. Perhaps I really am that little bit stronger after a week of training. Or maybe it’s simply the slow fog of terror clouding the edges of my mind, dulling my understanding of my own body. It comes and goes in waves.

‘Okay,’ says Finnick, ‘Assault course, and then we’re done.’

Although this is probably the hardest thing I’ve attempted it’s almost one of the most fun. Finnick hits a button on the wall, and rows of poles and ladders sink down from the ceiling, and slide into a series of grooves on the floor. Meanwhile, hidden panels of the floor flip up and sink away, tunnels and blocks snapping into place to create a course of what Finnick calls ‘urban and natural obstacles’. It’s a little like what we were shown school children doing in sports classes on old-world videos. Only this one is mechanized to change every single time you do it.

Finnick taps at a strap around his wrist. ‘I’m giving us four minutes and twenty five seconds to get through it.’

‘What?’ I’ve never completed it in under five before. In fact, the first three times, I simply fell off on the third obstacle.

‘Yep. As a team. Starting now. Go!’

‘I’m not ready  –’ I realize there’s no use complaining, and run with as much energy as I can muster towards the first obstacle, which is a short incline followed by a jump over a hollow. I know now the only way to do this is with speed, and not to worry about the landing until it happens.

‘Come on, Annie,’ says Finnick beside me, and suddenly, I’m desperate to prove to him that I can do it. I pound up the incline and fly over, kicking my legs in the air, Finnick right by my side.

_Unf._ My legs hit the floor and I crumple and roll, wincing at the shockwaves. But I made it across, and I grin, back on my feet.

‘Yes! Go, go, go, 2 and 3 are behind us.’

I run up a series of steps and onto a narrow balancing beam. Now here is one that takes agility, not strength, and this at least I know I can do. I stick my hands out either side of me and trot gently across, not looking down.

‘I’m with you Annie. But we need to be faster. 3 has her staff out.’

His voice spurs me on, and I jump between a series of cylinders poking up from the floor, spaced rather too far apart for someone with my height. The computer doesn’t like making anything easy, and they sink, shifting along the floor as I go. But I can’t stop.

‘A minute down.’

I jump, jump again, and then on the third I miss slightly, my foot just catching the side of the cylinder. I wobble desperately. I’m going to fall, and then we’ll have to start all over.

_No._ I use the last of my momentum to throw myself forwards, my hands catching the side of another cylinder painfully. But I haven’t touched the ground, and with a desperate effort I kick off my legs from the other, scrambling to get purchase on the one I balance on, which moves to the right.

‘Come on, Annie. Don’t stop. Don’t stop just go.’

I groan, and just manage to get one toe on enough that, quads aching, I can raise myself up onto one leg. I only just keep my balance but then I’m back on, and breathe deeply in relief.

‘No time to stop! Go, go go!’

Gasping for air now, and sweat running between my eyes, I continue to leap onwards. With utter concentration I don’t fall again. Then it’s a dive through a dark tunnel that narrows into a scramble on my side, and then I have to run at full pelt to leap up onto a low wall. I have only made it over this once, and I sprint, pushing off with all the power left in my legs. My arms slam painfully over the wall, but I just manage to hook it under my shoulders. Beside me, Finnick has leapt up with all the power of a cat, and sits crouched on top.

‘Come on,’ he says, ‘Thirty seconds to do this. You’re going to make it. Push.’

I strain, trying to gain purchase on the wall with my feet, and throw my right shoulder forward. The top half of my torso gets on top, and then I can roll on to balance. From there my center of gravity is over, and I almost laugh; I’ve actually made it.

‘Two and a half minutes. Keep it up.’

We jump down the other side, me turning to face the wall and bending my knees as we drop as I’ve been taught. My breath is ragged.

After a climb up and over a rock face, a series of massive, steep pole steps is another test of balance. I step between them; I don’t need to use my hands to go up. My leaps are in time with Finnick up one side, down the other.

 Good,’ says Finnick, as we descend. ‘I’m right beside you.’

Running again, harder now. I have to make it. I will make it.

We hit the series of hurdles and dash over them, legs in sync. One, two, three. I grin, adrenaline rushing through me. When we hit the final hurdle, Finnick flies over as though it’s nothing, but I know I can’t do it like that. I throw out with my arms, swinging my body over.

‘Last one, Annie. We’re going to make it. Keep going.’

It’s the one I hate most. It’s the one I’ve never completed. But I have to do it. I can’t stop now, it’s the last obstacle.

I stand at the bottom, facing the twisting twine, and take a deep breath. Then I grasp the rope in front of me with both hands, wrap my leg around to stand on my other foot, and _heave._

My arms are already aching as my first lurch lifts me a few feet off the ground. That is the easiest part, the hardest is keeping going. The burn in my forearms threatens to cramp, but I force my hands to raise up, a tiny bit, and take my weight long enough to shunt my legs slightly higher up the rope. And again. And again.

‘Keep going, Annie,’ Finnick says from below me, ‘You have a minute left. You’re doing so well. Don’t you dare give up.’

Gasping, I look up, but the rope above me is just as long as before. And it’s getting harder each time. Resisting the urge to scream, I grit my teeth and pull again. Every muscle in my body trembles.

And then my legs lose purchase on the rope. I let out a small scream as suddenly my hands take all the weight. My legs kick in the air and the rope is swinging, and any minute now it’s going to go ripping through my fingers, slicing my palms open as I rush down –

‘Grab it Annie! Hold on!’ There’s anxiety in his voice, and then that’s all the spur I need. I don’t even want to do this to impress him. I want to do this to prove him _wrong._ To prove them all _wrong._ To prove that I deserved that score of four – that I am not helpless – that maybe I cannot kill, but that doesn’t make me weak, that makes me _me –_

With a gasp my legs manage to catch the rope again, and as soon as I have purchase I shove myself upwards with all of my might, hands opening to catch the rope higher up…

…and closing around a metal loop at the top of the frame. My legs swing onto a bar, and there’s a moment’s blessed relief. I’ve done it. I’ve done it.

‘Thirty seconds, Annie, you’re almost there!’

But it’s not over yet. There are two more parts of this obstacle to go, and I have to make it in the time, I _will_ make it in the time although my arms are on fire. I breathe quickly on each of my hands to give them more grip, and then swing out onto the hanging bars. My arms are too short to swing freely between them so I have to go one arm at a time onto each, one two, one two.

‘Twenty seconds!’ Finnick has scrambled up the rope behind me in seconds, and keeps time along beside me, slowing himself down to keep pace.

Oh god, it hurts my arms, but this is harder on the rest of my body as I struggle to keep momentum. I don’t look down, because if I do I know I’ll miss my swing, lose my momentum, and fall.

‘Ten seconds. Keep going!’

There’s one more bar left. This one is further apart than the others and my fingers only just catch it.

‘Five seconds!’

I gasp in fear that I’ll fall, but I have swung harder than before and am able to throw the rest of my body directly on to the metal pole behind. This is it.

‘Two seconds!’

I relax my grip and slide down the pole.

‘One!’

My feet hit the floor.

‘Time!’

I collapse into a shaking heap of exhaustion. Finnick crouches down beside me, and I force myself to move, wincing as I press myself up into a sitting position.

Finnick pushes gently on my shoulders as I try to rise. ‘No, let yourself rest.’ I’m pleased that he is at least a little out of breath, even if he could have done the course twice over in half the time.

‘Annie, that was amazing,’ he says. ‘I’m going to sound like a patronizing dickhead,’ his face splits into a grin, ‘But I’m so proud of you.’

The corners of my lips tug upwards but I concentrate on my breathing, try to glance away from his blinding, infectious smile.

 

***********************************

This evening, I am curled on a sofa in a dressing gown, hair still wet from the shower.

‘Who’s your biggest danger will change,’ says Finnick, pacing in front of me. ‘And I don’t mean who is _the_ biggest danger, I mean who is _your_ biggest danger. It will change, depending on who dies early, and who adapts quickly.’

I nod. To my surprise Darius has joined us, and stands to one side, arms folded. Finnick does not comment on his presence, but throws himself onto the sofa next to me with a rueful smile. ‘We need to consolidate what we know. So let’s start with who you think are the most dangerous.’ He taps his fingers twice on the table in front of us, and a hologram projects all twenty three faces.

‘1 and 2,’ I say, ‘Both of them. And the girl from 3. Clyde. Those twins. Some of the other districts got good scores.’ I bite my lip. ‘ _Everyone_ is dangerous.’

‘Just focus on the most dangerous for the moment. But perhaps not only the people who scored the highest. The people who seem the most adaptable.’

‘The ones I said,’ I say flatly, ‘And Kayn from 12. He’s strong. The girl from 8 – she looks like she knows what she’s doing.’

‘I agree,’ says Finnick, ‘And you told me Matteo from 6 can fight with his hands.’

‘The boy from 3,’ I say, ‘His score wasn’t amazing but he’s still a Career.’

‘Sometimes people screw it up. And not all Careers want to be Careers,’ Finnick says evenly. He’s intent on what he is doing, dragging the faces around, arranging them into groups. ‘This is great. We’re already starting to rank them.’

A thought occurs to me, ‘What about Demera and Jordan?’

‘Johanna wouldn’t tell me a damn thing about her tributes, of course, but I’m not stupid,’ Finnick says darkly, ‘Demera is dangerous.’

‘Jordan…’ I cut off, and clear my throat. ‘He could be quite strong.’

Finnick shrugs. ‘Maybe. Mediocre score. Seems to me like center ground.’

The Career tributes are being arranged in groups near the top, with the others spanning down below them, some further together, some placed towards the back. It’s a pyramid.

‘In every Games there are the center ground,’ says Finnick, ‘The ones who are good, but not good enough. The ones that start off looking like they might have had a chance, and make it through the first few days because they know how to survive, but die as soon as the competition starts ratcheting up.’

He sits back. ‘Your Jordan could be one of those.’

_He’s not my Jordan._

‘You’ve forgotten one,’ I say, and Darius must have felt so too because he leans over the top of the sofa to tap on a small face with a mass of black curls. ‘Quiver from 5. She can use a bow.’

Darius tap the girl’s face, drags her forward and places her near the top. He taps again, and she turns purple.

Finnick nods at him. ‘Agreed.’ 

At the top of the pyramid are Halcyon and Victory, Indigo and Epiphany. Just below are Cashmere, and the twins, all marked in red. Iberis sits to one side, colored purple – uncertain.

‘You shouldn’t have to worry about all of these,’ says Finnick, ‘I mean, objectively, yes, be terrified of all of them, but there’s an awful lot of high scoring tributes this year. The cornucopia is going to be a blood bath. Don’t even think of going near it.’ He rubs his chin with a forefinger. ‘If they ally effectively, the hunt for the weaker tributes will begin almost immediately. You need to put as much distance between yourself and all of these if you can.’

‘There’s so many of them.’

‘I know. You can never discount anyone, but I think we have a few people you won’t have to concern yourself with too much.’

My stomach sinks. I don’t want to have to think about other children, as scared as me, and much younger, going into the Arena with even less preparation and even less of a chance. ‘The little boy. Jet. And…. Thorborn.’

Finnick nods. ‘Fannia is also an obvious target. She’ll be lucky to survive a day.’ These are conscribed to the bottom with a flick of a finger, in green. ‘Now for the center ground. You can’t forget about these guys, because they might get you before the Careers get them.’

The other faces. Marked in orange are Demera, Kayn, Quiver, Ettie, Matteo. Beneath them, the remaining tributes in yellow.

‘We need to discuss who’s likely to work together, who will strike out on their own. What you will need to watch out for.’

‘There are so many,’ I pause, ‘Is it possible that the Careers will make multiple alliances?’

‘Very likely,’ Finnick nods, and the faces are clumped together in groups, ‘Let’s say that they team up like this.’ The twins are together, of course. The pair from 1 take Cashmere and Kayn, and 2 have Matteo and Clyde. What was a pyramid has become a web.

I wonder what Clyde really will do.

‘Okay,’ Finnick taps the screen once more, and a final face appears. ‘Now I want you to show how you fit into all of this.’

These are the people who will die around me. These are the people who will kill me. As I stare at the hologram my face seems to grow larger and larger, swelling in comparison with the other figures.

Two days. Two days now.

‘Annie?’ Finnick’s voice snaps through the pounding in my mind and I realize I have been holding one finger out, pointing at my face on the screen. ‘Where will you go, Annie’

‘I…’ _I will run. I will hide. I will get as far from this as possible, for as long as I can, although I know that doesn’t work, because once you’re in the Arena there is nowhere to hide, because once you’re in the Arena there is nowhere to go…_

 ‘I…’ I am struggling to focus, ‘Do you mean – like – an alliance?’

Finnick says nothing but looks at me, expectant. I shake my head. ‘I… who would want to ally with me? I’ve talked to Jordan, but I don’t know… we never mentioned…. I don’t think I could.’

Finnick nods. ‘Your best chances for survival are to stick by yourself. You would never survive in a Career alliance, even if you could convince them to take you on.’

‘I know,’ I say, ‘I don’t want to.’ I swallow. ‘I’m going to be alone.’

‘Having said that, if good alliance opportunities come up of their own accord don’t pass them by.’ He places a gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘Hey,’ his eyes are soft, ‘You’re not alone. And you won’t be.’ He grins, as though he knows what he’s saying sounds ridiculous. ‘I’ll be watching you, after all.’

I almost have to laugh, but what comes out instead is a weird, hacking sob. I disguise it by coughing into a fist.

‘The last thing I wanted to talk about,’ says Finnick, ‘And then I’ll promise I’ll let you go – is how it’s going to play out. Who’s likely to survive.’ He swipes a finger and the tributes marked in green are wiped from the hologram. Something about that drops cold in my gut – seeing the faces disappear like that. Then the yellow go. Then a couple in orange. We are left with the original faces I chose.

‘These are the guys you most need to watch out for. I want you to remember their faces Annie, and realize that these are the ones who will be most likely to kill you.’

At the word I tense. Finnick swallows as though he’s not sure how to continue.

‘I know… that you don’t want to kill. That you don’t think you have the capacity to kill.’

I know where this going and no, I don’t want it. I don’t. I only realize I have been tensing, trying to stand, when he puts both his hands on my shoulders. That tone to his voice is back –  the formal Finnick, the one who doesn’t want to understand. ‘But if you make it – when you make it through the first few days, you’re going at some point to come face to face with one of these tributes. And you need to do everything you can to stay alive.’

I’m shaking my head. I have accepted it, accepted almost everything up to this point, but this is one barrier I cannot break, cannot cross. God knows I would do anything not to have to enter the Arena, but in some sick way, my body has almost become numb, apathetic to the notion of dying. But to _kill_ –

‘Annie, you will have to kill a human being. That is certain. Somehow you’re going to have to find the strength –’

‘Strength?’ I gasp, ‘I know I’m weak. But if that is strength, you know I don’t want it.’

‘Annie, you’re going to have to want it,’ he snaps, his eyes are tumbling sea green, and though I know it’s not just anger it’s still enough to send me flying to my feet; there’s the tightening in my chest that means I’m going to panic. ‘That’s the only way you can survive.’

‘No, no no,’ I say, shaking my head. I had avoided this. Ignored it. For days we haven’t mentioned it and somehow I’ve almost allowed myself to forget, but now I can see it, and my hands clutch a dagger, faced with the choice of taking his life or sacrificing my own.

I’m backing away slowly. The room is too warm, getting hotter. ‘Annie,’ says Finnick, ‘You’ve seen the Games. You know what makes a Victor.’

‘Murder,’ I gasp, ‘Murder.’

Finnick’s eyes widen.

‘They teach children to murder. They taught you to kill, like _animals_.’

Finnick’s eyes are unreadable. ‘Annie, calm down.’

‘No,’ I say, backing away around the sofa as he walks towards me, palms up. Because I know it now with deadly clarity. Either I die out there, or I return a murderer. There is no middle way. There is no choice. They have stolen that from me. As they stole it from him too –

And I see it now, as I saw it years ago – I see the face of the terrified ten year old boy passing by on the street, his mother dragging him by the arm, peering out from behind my father’s apron I see the scream behind his eyes as the people in white walk him away and shut him into the white house on the hill.

‘Annie.’

There was no boy in the creature they let loose four years later, the relentless killer who swam down his quarry and – oh gods, how he terrified me. And here he is. Those hands have cut through flesh. Those lips have tasted blood. Beautiful and terrible, but which is which? Both. Both, and those hands reach for me now, stretch out, but those hands mean violence and death. _‘Get away from me.’_

‘Annie. You’re panicking.’

Annie-can’t-kill which means I’m going to die bloody and afraid, will I scream? Will I scream like the girl from 5 last year who screamed so loud that the boy that broke her neck couldn’t stop crying as he did it? Or maybe I won’t have time to scream because they’ll crack through my skull with a rock, slit my throat –

‘ _Annie!_ ’           

– and then I’ll be dead and no-one will remember because next year there will be more tributes, more children to murder and die and blood and the next year too because it never ends, it never _ends_ –

Darius reaches out a hand but I barrel past him and burst from the room.

_There is another way._

‘Annie!’

_Annie can’t kill Annie going to die Annie from the sea die die die_

I dash down hallways, burst into a room, any room, and the world is black. Someone is shouting something behind me.

I don’t know where I am. There’s no air. My head is spinning and there’s no air in here. I need to get out. I slam myself into the windows at the back of the room but they do not move. It’s not the sea. It’s showing waves but it’s not the sea, I need to get out get out

I scream, hit the glass, and then it gives, something moves and I can break through a door in the glass out into a freezing rush of night time air. I’m on a tiny balcony, reeling above the wind and the light and the noise of the millions in the city below. I can’t go into that. I can’t go into that to kill and die and kill and die.

I scream. I don’t know what I scream because my head is full of screaming already. My voice is a thousand voices _three two one die die die Annie you’re going to die with blood and you’ll piss yourself in fear and there’ll be strings of flesh in between their fingers as they dig out your eyes and you’ll scream_

‘ _Annie_ ,’ Finnick’s call is low, desperate, and it cuts through the fever in my head like a knife. He’s stepping out onto the balcony, palms raised, wind whipping his hair back from his head in a burst of fiery gold from the last of the day’s sunshine. ‘Annie, please come away from there.’

I reel back, even as I turn I’m pressing myself against the barrier of the back of the balcony.

_He brought you here he did this to you_

No, not Finnick, it was them, it was the Capitol. The President making murder.

‘It’s wrong,’ I know my voice is hysterical, but I can’t stop. ‘It’s all wrong. We send children to die. Every year we send children to die and nobody questions it. Nobody stops to think that it’s _sick._ ’ My last word is a scream.

‘Annie,’ Finnick walks towards me, one arm outstretched. ‘Annie, I know. I know.’

‘You don’t know,’ I stagger backwards, away from him, wind whipping my hair into my face. ‘You don’t know because you’re part of it. You won and you smile on their screens, you take their money, you smile and it’s a lie.’ My voice is a high pitched, quickening stream. ‘You became one of them.’

For a moment Finnick starts as though I’ve slapped him. But still he walks forward, gesturing for me to come into his arms. ‘Annie. Come back.’

I shake my head. Blood trickles down my palm from where Shelleysticks is clamped in my shaking fist, plastic limbs puncturing my skin. ‘You’re like them. You mentor, you pick me, and then it happens all again. It always happens all again, and people laugh as they watch children murder each other for sport.’

‘ _Annie,’_ Finnick’s shout is commanding, desperate, and somehow I am sat on the railing, leaning backwards into the wind. I tilt on the edge of oblivion. In that moment all I can see is the wavering sky and there’s a wild leap inside of me as I realize that I want to fall into the grey.

Strong arms tackle me and there’s a burst of pain as my shoulder jars against stone. I scream again, struggle against his grasp, but then the fight goes out of me in a rush, the hollow sickness of realization rippling through my body. I was going to kill myself. My cheeks are sticky with tears.

 Finnick’s arms are tight, crushing me to him. He holds me as I sob, but not for a moment does he relax his grip. My arms grasp him just as tightly, his shirt crumpled against my cheek. He pushes up, leans against the railings so that we are in a sitting position, but still holds me into him.

‘Don’t you ever,’ his voice and arms are shaking, ‘Do that again. Don’t you dare. I will not let you die, Annie Cresta. I will not let you die.’

‘It’s never going to end,’ my head is still reeling, my mind floating somewhere away and above, ‘The Games are never going to end. We die and die and die and still they want more of us to die.’

‘Shh,’ he says, and he’s rocking me back and forth, ‘Shh.’

‘It’s never going to end,’ I can’t stop the spinning cycles of pain and fear in my brain, that I’ve seen in snatches on the screens every year since I was born, even as I tried not to watch, as much a part of me as my own blood.

_It never ends._

I choke out, ‘You have to find a way to stop it Finnick. You and Johanna. Promise me, Finnick. Promise that there won’t be any others. No more children sent to die.’

Finnick presses his mouth to my hair, and he’s still shaking. ‘I will never stop searching, Annie. I will never stop trying. I swear.’

I cling to this in the nightmare of my swirling thoughts. I cling to him for a long time, both of us crouched by the edge of the balcony, until my shaking stops, and my breathing falls in time with his. The air blows cold but I need the cold to remind me where I am. To keep me sane. The cold makes the warmth from his body feel so much more powerful. Someone tucks a blanket around us, then walks away, steps silent. I think it was Darius.

The light around us has darkened, and I realize I am exhausted. But there’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep. I squeeze my eyes tight shut, bury them into Finnick’s shoulder, but in my mind I’m still staring, red lights bursting behind my eyelids.

If Finnick wants to leave, he doesn’t say so. Instead he simply holds me. Even after everything that has happened, he still holds me. It’s only when I eventually stir that he shifts, looks down at me with those sea-green eyes, questioning.

‘I want to sleep,’ I say, ‘But I can’t sleep. I haven’t slept.’

He pulls something from a pocket as his chest.

‘Sleeping pills,’ he says, ‘They help. When the nightmares get really bad. When you can’t sleep at all. I shouldn’t, but we all do. One night won’t hurt.’

I look from the small capsule he is proffering up to his open face. ‘You get nightmares?’

Of course he gets nightmares. There was so much blood. Rivulets running down his face, streaking his bronze hair, as he rose up from the water like a vengeful god. Like an angel of death.

Of course Finnick Odair gets nightmares. He is only human, after all.

‘Thank you,’ I say softly. Finnick curls my fingers around the datapad he gently places in my palm.

I glance back through my open windows at the dark, softly carpeted room of my apartment. The curtains billow against the floor. The Tribute’s Apartment. The last place I will have a chance to call home. I place the pill in my mouth and swallow.

It must be strong, because I’m immediately drowsy as we enter the room, and Finnick turns to shut out the cool of dusk with a soft click. I don’t notice how I’m leaning into him until he picks me up, and carries me to the bed. The soft glow of the red lamp beside my bed throws inky shadows across the planes of his face, and burnishes the ends of his hair with fire. He is so beautiful.

Softly, he lowers me onto the covers. My eyelids flutter closed as with one hand, he brushes the hair back from my forehead.

‘Goodnight, Annie Cresta,’ he says softly, and bends over to press his lips, gently, gently, against my forehead. Something inside me sighs, and relaxes. I can sleep. I can sleep tonight.

I can sense him there, above me, as my body slowly sink into the sheets. His steps are quiet as he leaves. The soft creak of a door rouses me slightly.

‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur.

Finnick pauses, silent.

‘I’m sorry for the other day. Flickerman. I wasn’t going to tell anyone.’

Finnick looks down at his hands.

‘I won’t be here for much longer,’ I add, voice slurring now, ‘They can’t hurt you because of me.’ I breathe out. ‘I don’t want them to hurt you because of me.’

Finnick doesn’t reply, but it's a while before he leaves me.

 

***********************************

I wake to the sound of birds. The windows show no projection, just the harsh blue of the Capitol sky. And there’s a thrush outside my window.

I sit up. Its chest vibrates as it gurgles its song. Its brown beak bobs, and then, it flutters away, swooping down beyond where I can see it.

It’s peaceful. I am no longer tired. I am almost content.

I make my way eventually to the living area. Past ten o’ clock, and yet Finnick is nowhere to be seen. I thought we would have started training by now. Clyde and Shona come in through the door, sweaty from their morning training.

‘Morning,’ I say out of habit, and Clyde nods. Why hasn’t Finnick woken me up if I’ve overslept so?

I finally find Finnick in the dining room, sat in front of an elaborate spread of brunch.

‘Morning,’ he says, ‘Sleep well?’

I nod. ‘Do you mind if I have some more of them?’

‘For tonight?’ says Finnick, ‘I’m sorry Annie. They tend to affect motor response; that’s why I didn’t mention them before. It wouldn’t be good to have them tonight.’ He takes a huge bite from a croissant stuffed with cheese, bacon, an egg, and slightly incongruously, jam. Well, this is the Capitol.

I’m starving. ‘Aren’t we training this morning?’ I ask, filling a plate with everything in reach.

‘If you want,’ says Finnick, ‘But I thought we could do something different too.’

Riley trots in, grabs an apple, and keeps running, barely acknowledging us as she taps on her data pad. She comes to a stop in front of Finnick, scrolls twice with her finger and then says, ‘Not Central Park. Dapper Groenberg is out jogging and the paps are on it. Lawton and Presidential are too busy, your safest bet is Justice.’

‘Great,’ says Finnick, and grins up at her. ‘We were only going to go to Justice anyway, but it’s nice to have your grand ideas confirmed.’

Riley raises an eyebrow.

 ‘We should do something fun today,’ says Finnick so me, ‘Forget training. We deserve it.’

‘Fun,’ I say, mildly suspicious, because I’m not exactly sure what Finnick does for fun.

‘I wanted to show you a place in the Capitol,’ he says, ‘A park. It’s pretty neat. We could take food. And if you like, I could show you around. The zoo is awesome.’

‘I’ve never been to a zoo,’ I say.

‘Annie,’ his face breaks into a grin, ‘Wait until you see the lemurs.’ He turns to Riley, grins languidly and says ‘I’m sure the paparazzi are all dying to visit the zoo as well.’

Riley purses her lips. Finnick gives her a gaze that can only be described as _smouldering_. ‘Please?’

Riley huffs out a long suffering sigh, and taps something else into her pad. ‘Looks like two separate tip offs just confirmed sightings of you on the _other_ side of town to the zoo. And stop with that ridiculous face. I’m doing this for Annie.’

But we don’t go to Justice. Instead we jump out of the car at an intersection, and Darius pulls smoothly away as though nothing has happened. Finnick takes my hand, pulls me through twists and turns in the crowds on the streets. Stark white buildings of glass and metal tower high above us, leaning forwards in the sky, and everywhere I see the eagle of Panem. We dash up clear steps and into the carriage of a maglev train that runs through the city, and stand on opposite sides of the carriage wearing sunglasses, pretending that we don’t know each other. Finnick frowns at a datapad and I stare out the window. I have to resist the urge to laugh. But nobody bothers us.

And that’s how an hour later we’re strolling through the sunshine in the most secluded area of the Capitol I’ve seen so far. The landscape of the park rolls in a way which could almost be natural. Foliage grows thick and free alongside twisting paths, down into little groves where benches sit by a brook. We don’t talk as we wander, but Finnick occasionally glances at me, and when a sparrow darting across our path makes me smile, he does too.

We break out onto a meadow, green grass backed by trees, and behind that, if I squint, the thin heights of distant skyscrapers. The park is far enough from down town that I can almost forget we’re in the Capitol. There are only a few others around, and they are perhaps less flamboyant in their dress as most I’ve seen in this city. There’s a family too, the first children I’ve seen since I came here.

‘Fitzroy,’ says Finnick, ‘This place is called Fitzroy. This area used to be part of a city even older than the Capitol. It’s where I come when I need to get out.’

If it’s a distraction – of course it’s a distraction – but I don’t mind. Because it works.

We don’t talk much, but that’s alright too. The silence is warm, and this way, it’s easier to pretend. We’re just two friends. A boy and a girl. Maybe it couldn't ever have become something more, but here, now, as we lie on the grass and gaze up at the sky, I can almost pretend that in another life it might have been a possibility.

True to his word, Finnick did bring along food, and I did too – anything that looked nice from this morning’s buffet, and I empty my small rucksack on the grass. For two hours we do nothing but lie and eat, and our bodies grow gloriously sluggish in the sunshine. Two birds chase each other, whirling across the sky, and down here, we’re alone too.

 ‘Why don’t more people come here?’ I ask.

Finnick gives a half shrug. ‘Too busy maybe. Or they just don’t care.’

The grass tickles between my fingers, crushing against my limbs and I stretch out, pressing myself into the earth.

I turn my head to face Finnick, whose eyes are closed. His chest rises and falls slowly, closed eyelashes long against his bronzed cheeks. I drink him in, the rise of his cheekbones, the small freckle below his eye, the warm copper of his hair, falling back from his forehead in soft single loops. His lips are slightly parted as he breathes.

I stay this way for a long time. This is what I want to remember; this is what I want to carry with me. This feeling of utter peace. I have no fear looking at him anymore, because he knows all there is to know of me now.

My eyes are drawn to the woven strips of leather around his neck. He never takes it off, and I’ve seen boys in the District wear similar jewelry before.

‘Who gave you that?’ I ask, and reach out gently, to touch it.

‘Mags,’ he murmurs, ‘Just before my Games.’

I smile. ‘A lucky charm.’

‘No. It’s a strangle cord.’

I feel foolish, but at the same time I burst out a laugh.

Finnick turns his face to mine, eyes open, and edge of his mouth edging upwards into a smile. His eyes are so very green. My laughter trails off. Those eyes are deep enough to swallow me whole, and though today they are peaceful, I can sense the blue of storms deep within them.

I can’t look away. But he doesn’t seem to want to, either. Instead between his eyebrows a small crease of a frown, his mouth open again as though he wants to ask something.

Every part of me aches to reach out and touch him, and yet I know I can’t. I will never be able to. Even with Finnick beside me, a bulwark that holds back the full extent of emptiness, I can still feel the edges of the void pressing in against my mind.

I sit up, his eyes following me. ‘Let’s go explore,’ I say. _I want to stay distracted._

He gazes at me a moment longer. ‘Course,’ he says, standing up, and brushing grass from his pants. I look away as he stretches out his arms out over his head with a satisfied growl. My cheeks are already warm, and need as little encouragement as possible.

We stroll over the grass and back into the trees, where we come to a low bridge. Instead of crossing it, in unspoken agreement we wander down to the edge of the water. Then Finnick picks up a pebble and skims it across the stream. I grin in delight. This is a skill I’ve never been able to learn, because you can’t skim stones on the sea. In exaggerated slow motion he repeats the action, giving me his sideways smile as I copy him. Our pebbles fly into the water, mine disappearing with a _plop_ as Finnick’s bounces four, five times.

‘Show off,’ I say. Finnick laughs, bright and clear, and then with a whoop, leaps forward, and barrels us both into the water. I grab hold of his arms, just managing to stay upright, although my shoes and socks are entirely soaked. He pulls away, chuckling, and then smacks his hand through the water, cold droplets spattering my face and sticking my shirt to my skin.

‘I’ll get you for that, Finnick Odair,’ I say darkly, and then clap a hand to my mouth. I’m so stupid.

Finnick lowers his sunglasses. ‘I would like to know who this fellow Finnick Odair is,’ he says in Capitol accent, ‘His name sounds absolutely ridiculous. How dare you mistake him for me? You know full well it is… Clyde… von Barrington.’

I laugh, pulling off my shoes with one hand and placing them back on the shore. ‘Mr von Barrington, you’re going to pay for that.’

‘Aha,’ says Finnick, tossing his sunglasses onto the shore and backing away as I wade through the water towards him, ‘You’ve forgotten that water is my element.’ While the bank is pebbles, the center of the stream is soft sand. I guess that’s the plus side of manufactured landscapes.

‘How unfortunate,’ I say, ‘It’s mine too.’ I bend forward and cut my elbow through the water so a wave curves up and over him – or at least the lower half of him.

‘Oh god, it’s like I’ve pissed myself,’ Finnick groans. He grins at me, brilliant teeth, eyes narrowed. ‘ _That’s it.’_

He dashes towards me and I back away, then turn, running, splashing and giggling wildly. His hand snatches my shoulder and I spin sideways, but before he drags me down he yelps as he trips and tumbles forward, his entire body crashing into the water and absolutely drenching me. I cannot stop laughing as he pulls himself up, spitting out water which drips from the tips of his hair and runs in rivulets down his body, shirt clinging to his chest.

In this moment I see how far he is from Finnick of the Hunger Games, Finnick who burst from the water with murder in his eyes. Those eyes are laughing now. The two Finnicks have never been the same thing at all. They are both real, but one of them doesn’t matter. I must have paused a second too long, because then his arms are around me and my cry is cut off as I go tumbling backwards.

My head bursts back up above the water, and I roll free, turning to continue splashing him, coughing and spluttering. ‘I told you, if I’m going down, you’re going down with me,’ he says.

A mother with a small child smiles indulgently at us as she walks over the bridge, and then does a small double take, leaving only exceptionally slowly, with repeated glances back at Finnick.

I gaze at him, distressed. He reads me instantly. ‘Annie, this is one day. What we’re doing this one day can’t hurt me.’

‘But –’

‘I spent a long time yesterday thinking about this, Annie,’ His jaw is set, but he looks up at me through his eyelashes – almost _shy_. ‘And I’m choosing this.’

I can’t completely erase my fear for him, but the final cramps of the tension I’ve imagined between us since the interview blossom outwards into relief.  I bite my lip. ‘Thank you.’

‘Yeah, well,’ Finnick holds out a hand to me. After a moment, I take it. ‘It means a lot to me t – _whoa,_ piranhas!’

It was a trap, of course, because suddenly I’m spluttering on water again, and both of us are drenched and laughing.

When we finally collapse, exhausted onto the bank, the sun is already hanging halfway down the sky. I wring out the skirt of my dress, and we follow the stream, wandering back through the park, down to where it deposits itself in a reedy lake populated by ducks. We walk around the edge, barefoot, shoes slung around our necks. The warm air tickles as it lifts the sodden strands of my hair, and I relish the caress of the breeze cooling my skin.

Coming to the edge of the park, one of our stomachs gives an ominous growl. We glance at each other. ‘Oops,’ says Finnick, and pats his stomach ‘We already ate all the food.’

‘I have some left,’ I begin to slip off my rucksack.

‘No you don’t!’ Finnick. ‘There’s no food. None. We’re going to have to go to a restaurant or something. Oh, but wait!’ He slips his sunglasses back down over his eyes, entirely straight faced. ‘I know one just a block away.’

My lips tug into a smile. ‘Did you happen to reserve a table there as well?’

‘Stop it. You’re embarrassing me.’

We walk side by side onto the pavement of the quiet street backing the park. The houses here are so old that they are made of red brick, with elegant white window frames, and thick trees casting dappled shadows onto the sidewalk. It’s refreshing not to care about how we appear to the few people who pass by, although we are both still damp. The top layer of my hair is drying into frizzy waves, and Finnick’s is mussed up in all directions, which I love. As we walk side by side our arms brush, and I think maybe I could take his hand. But I couldn’t do that to him.

Turning the corner, we come to a small café. Finnick enters, shoes squelching onto the threshold. At least they’re on his feet, I suppose.  A waiter catches his eye, then immediately disappears through a staff door. I hang back, unsure.

‘Come in, Annie,’ Finnick gestures at me, ‘It’s fine. Max is a friend.’

I have friends, but that doesn’t mean I’d drip on their carpet. Finnick tucks his sunglasses into the front of his shirt. There aren’t many people in here and the few who glance up at us seem unconcerned, or, after a momentary gawk, do their best to pretend they haven’t noticed. A lanky young man with flour in his hair appears from the staff door and comes over to shakes our hands warmly.

‘Don’t bother about the carpet,’ he says, ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Cresta. Finnick stops by here sometimes, but he’s never brought a guest.’

‘If you could get us the table upstairs, that’d be great,’ says Finnick.

‘It’s already ready.’ Max leads us up a winding, wooden staircase at the back; this building is very old indeed. ‘We’re dripping wet, and people are too polite to pretend they’ve noticed,’ I hiss at him.

‘You see why I like this place?’ Finnick murmurs back.

We come out to a balcony with a single table overlooking the park. The lake peeks silver in the sunshine where I can catch it through the trees, and the Capitol’s spires glint in the distance.

Max sends a waitress up with blankets in case we get cold, and a towel to dry our hair, which I gratefully accept. When Finnick is done with it he looks like someone has given him an electric shock. _A stupidly sexy electric shock._

I gaze out over the view for a minute, Finnick poring over the menu. ‘All of the stuff here is great,’ he offers.

‘I don’t…’ I shift slightly, ‘Have any money.’

Finnick raises an eyebrow, but it’s only teasing. ‘It’s on me. Obviously.’

But that just makes it seem like –

His cheeks turn an ever so slightly rosier shade of bronze as he looks back down at his menu, and I feel my stomach sink softly. 

Finnick Odair has taken me on a date. An old fashioned _date._ To make my last day the best day he can, with no way to give me my family, my hope, or my freedom, he is indulging instead in my most foolish of fantasies.  I stand suddenly from my chair, and lean over the balcony. I would rather leave right now than have him pretend.

The sun is on my face, and below cutlery chinks softly. Finnick is beside me a moment later. He looks at me, but doesn’t press with a question.

‘I don’t want you to pity me,’ I say. Trees sway gently towards the balcony in the breeze. ‘And I don’t want you to be dishonest out of pity.’

Finnick seems puzzled. A breeze tousles a lock of his hair across his forehead.

I swallow, ‘Finnick, you don’t have to pretend for me.’

His puzzlement deepens into a frown. ‘Annie.’ He swallows. ‘I have never pretended with you. And – there’s not a lot of people I can say that to.’

Now I’m the one who’s confused. ‘This, Finnick. I don’t want this.’

His jaw clenches. ‘I know you don’t … want me. But this is not supposed to be a –’ He turns to face out over the balcony, and although his voice is light his fists are clenched tight on the railing. ‘I didn’t think you thought yourself too good to even eat with me.’

My mind goes blank. ‘Of course I – how can you think –’ 

Finnick shakes his head. ‘It’s not like I can blame you.’ He laughs. ‘I should be congratulating you Annie. I’ve been teaching you to survive, Annie, and my god you’re going to survive. When you played Flickerman you pulled the biggest card in the deck.’

‘Played?’ I breathe.

He turns to face me. ‘They love you, Annie,’ he says, and his eyes are deep sea again, and I’m gazing overboard into their depths. ‘They really love you now. That was the greatest lie you could have told.’

He reaches out one hand, as though to stroke my cheek, but thinks better of it. ‘I thought I’d forgotten how to hurt.’ His voice cuts, but it’s not cutting me. ‘Which is why I didn’t stick around to congratulate you, after.’  He reaches out, utterly focused, and runs his fingers into my hair, cups the side of my face in his hand.

His voice is soft and sad. ‘We taught you too well, Annie Cresta.’

And in that moment, I understand.

‘Finnick,’ I raise my hand, press it over his. ‘I wasn’t playing anybody.’

He frowns, just a little.

‘I thought… you didn’t stick around because you were angry. Because I’d put you in danger. I’m terrible at lying, Finnick,’ My voice cracks slightly. ‘Surely you’ve figured that out by now. Everything I told him – it’s the truth.’

His thumb against my cheek, the breeze languidly lifting one lock of my hair. Finnick’s eyes are dark, a darker, stormier sea than I’ve ever seen them. His lips are parted. And then he leans in, and presses those lips to mine.

The kiss is warm, strong, and as my mouth opens against his my heart rushes, swelling upwards as the bottom drops off of my world. My hands find his waist, and I pull him closer, hold him to me, and our lips move together.

I will never let him go. I will never lose this sensation, of Finnick Odair kissing me.

Our lips part, and foreheads rest together in the lengthening light, Finnick’s fingers entwined through mine, his eyelashes burnished with fire. His breath is warm on my face.

‘You have this strength, Annie,’ he murmurs, and it’s like our kiss has uncorked a dam. ‘You’re whole. I knew it from the moment I met you. I saw it once before, but it wasn’t so clear. I never understood it. I could never grasp it. But when I’m with you –’

Then there is noise beside us, and I remember where we are. Who we are. A waitress stands frozen on the stairs, eyes carefully averted. But I do not care what she has seen, as we move apart, take our places once again at the table, my body trembling.

Nothing they can do has the power to take this moment from me.

 

***********************************

 ‘It took me a while to work it all out,’ Finnick says quietly, ‘But if you want to… I’ve found a way to contact your family. To talk to them.’

Something inside me lurches.  Finnick pulls his datapad out from his rucksack.

‘Not for long. Only while we’re on the move. But you can, if you want.’

It’s entirely illegal. ‘Of course I want.’ My voice cracks.

Darius drives us home in the back of the limousine, evening casting its blood red light over the spires of the city.

‘You have access to netspace at home, don’t you?’ I nod. Quite a lot of families do. Our holoscreen is old and doesn’t do much other than stream Capitol transmissions, but it does connect to the District 4 news net. My fingers tremble as I take the datapad from Finnick’s hands. The screen is covered in a network of tiny lights.

‘This is lurking in the local monitoring hub right now,’ Finnick says, ‘And it should register all the connected datatech. If you can find yours, you just have to click on it.’

So the District has always had the power to observe everyone in their own homes. As I scroll in, the clustered groups of lights become designated identification tags, and within each tag, the first four letters of a name. I see it almost straight away.

_#329ODEST_

I press the tag, and the screen winks out. And then opens up again, becomes a window into another world, directly into my own living room and the kitchen behind. The gingham curtain is ruffled by the evening breeze coming through the seaward window. The hibiscus on the sill has fully opened since I’ve been gone. I swallow back tears.

And then my mother walks across the screen, lays a tray upon the table.

‘Mom,’ I say.

She glances up for a moment, face white. Then shakes her head, and turns away.

_‘Mom.’_ My voice trembles. ‘Mom, I’m on the screen.’

My mother’s eyes when they lock onto mine are filled with so much pain, so much love, that I can’t hold back my own tears. She rushes forward, around the sofa, reaches out as though to touch the screen.

‘Oh god, Annie,’ she whispers. ‘I thought I was never going to see you again. Baby. How…’

‘I love you, mom. I don’t have much time.’

‘Marcus,’ she calls, voice strained. ‘Come quickly. Bring your brother. _Now._ Oh Annie, I love you so much. Are you alright? Are they treating you well? I’m so sorry my baby, Annie, I’m so, so sorry.’

‘It’s okay, mom.’ We’re both crying. ‘I’m good. I’m fine. I wanted to say goodbye. I love you.’

My brothers’ feet patter on the tiles. Finn is round the corner first, and his chubby face opens up with joy. ‘Annie!’

My mother sweeps him into her arms, and he laughs at me over the screen. Marcus approaches more slowly, a look on his face that is almost wary. ‘Is that really her?’

‘Of course it’s me,’ I sob, ‘Oh, I miss you all so much. I love you all.’

‘Your father will be home any minute, Annie. How are they treating you? Is Finnick training you?’

‘It’s been good,’ I nod, ‘Finnick has been great. He’s taught me so much.’ _Not enough._

Mom’s eyes widen. ‘Is he there with you? Is he doing this?’

‘Mom –‘

‘He can give you weapons training, Annie,’ says Marcus, ‘You can be tough – fight them! People do it all the time. You will. I know you will.’ Finn is quiet, frightened by our tears. There’s the sound of a door closing, heavy boot steps, and then my Dad enters the kitchen.

‘Donack,’ my mother says, and he turns. ‘My god.’ He rushes forward, and there are dark shadows under his eyes, new traces of grey in his trim beard. ‘How are you doing this, Annie? No. Don’t tell me. God bless that boy. We thought we were never going to see you again,’ his voice cracks, half a twisted smile. ‘Our precious girl.’

‘I love you,’ I say, ‘I love all of you so much, and I need you all to remember that. I still have Shelleysticks, Finny,’ I force brightness into my voice, ‘She’s been keeping me company.’

‘Are you coming back soon?’ he whispers.

 ‘Annie,’ Dad’s is crumpled, desperate, ‘Do you – do you have a chance? Is there a chance for you?’ At this my mother clamps her hand over her mouth, holding back another sob.

‘I don’t know, Dad,’ the tears are coming thick and fast now. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Don’t – don’t hope for me –’

‘Annie, _no!’_ cries Marcus. ‘You’re going to be Victor – the champions of District 4, you and Finnick!’

‘Dad, Mom, please don’t worry about me, I don’t want you to be unhappy.’

‘How can we not, Annie? You’re our child. You’re our world.’ Dad’s knuckles are white, squeezing Marcus’ shoulders, ‘All of you are our world.’

‘Twenty seconds,’ Finnick murmurs. My stomach lurches. 

‘Marcus, you know I’m so proud of you, right? Keep stealing the pilchards from Hager Crux, you’re right, he sucks. And you, Finny, my gorgeous boy. I’m always going to be with both of you, because you’re my baby brothers. Mom, Dad, I love you so much.’

‘We love you too,’ my Mom whispers, ‘More than you can possibly imagine. We’ll be with you till – the end – whatever end. Come back to us.’

The screen winks out, and I cry silently, resting against Finnick’s chest.

***********************************

It is dark by the time we return, and the apartment sits in silence. We reach the junction where our corridors part. My throat swells, unsure of what to say. If there is anything to say.

In a bare few hours, with coming of the next dawn, this will all be over, and I will be dying.

Finnick turns to me, jaw clenched, eyes darting back and forth as though he is searching for words. Instead he pulls me into him and we embrace, my head slotting beneath his chin where he rests his face against my hair. ‘Goodnight, Annie Cresta,’ he says. I bury my face in his chest at the collarbone, breathe in the scent of his skin, warmth and musk and the edge of sea which never quite left him, no matter we’re so far from home.

I pull apart and gaze up at him, hoping to assuage the pain in his eyes with sincerity. ‘Thank you,’ I say, and I mean it from the depths of my soul.

He says nothing, but clasps my hand once more, briefly, pressing another sleeping pill into my palm. I cannot take the look in those green eyes of his, and our fingers break apart, drifting into empty air as I turn away. And then he tugs me to him, and I spin, my heart spinning, and Finnick Odair locks me in his arms for a moment to lean down, briefly, gently, to press his lips against mine.

And then he walks away, leaving me breathless in the low lights of the landing.

It is a moment before I find the power to walk back to my room. I dress in the fitted nightgown laid out on my bed, smooth down the material with my hands, and gaze out over the night beyond my windows for what may be the last time. I climb into bed, fold myself under the covers.

My fingers tremble as I put the sleeping pill to my mouth, but my hand stays. My lips can still feel where he kissed me, I can still hear the blood pounding in my veins. And I do not want to sleep tonight. Not yet.

And so I walk back through the darkened corridors, my fingers trailing against the walls, smooth across the paint. My feet sink into the carpet, soft fibers brushing between my toes.

_Last night on earth._

Well, perhaps it is.

I reach the darkened rectangle of his doorway, a soft glow still coming from underneath. ‘Finnick,’ I say softly.

It opens slightly, and Finnick’s eyes flicker for a moment in surprise. ‘Hey,’ he says, and the edge of his mouth curves up, in that smile. The Finnick smile.

Gently, I push the door open where his hand rests it ajar, and enter his room.

‘Annie,’ his voice is concerned, ‘Are you alright?’

I turn to him, smile gently. I unfold my hand. In it sits the sleeping pill, and I let it fall to the ground.

Finnick Odair. My Finnick. He wears a t-shirt and loose pyjama bottoms, copper hair mussed from the pillow. The glow of the lamp illuminates the planes of his face, glances off his lashes, his tired eyes. Those burning, burning eyes.

My spirit is burning for him, too.

I move past him and look out at the open night behind, through the door ajar on his balcony. My reflection in the window panes is pale, ethereal. I am something more this night, and yet still fully myself, with a gravity and clarity I never knew I possessed.

Slowly, I shrug my shoulders out of the material of my night gown, and the satin is cool as it ripples over my legs to the floor.

I turn to face Finnick, bearing to him both my body and soul as I never have to another person. My pulse thuds deep inside me in both exhilaration and fear. But at the same time I am still, and my breathing comes smooth, because as a soft breeze lifts the tresses of my hair I know nothing has ever felt so right. I crave this boy, my whole body aching with the need for him.

‘Annie,’ he says softly, and it is not quite a question.

I take a step towards him.

‘Tonight is my last night,’ I say simply.

For a moment Finnick says nothing, but blinks, jaw clenched and gaze locked onto mine.

‘And I want to spend my last night with you.’

Finnick never looks away. ‘You shouldn’t.’ His voice is hoarse. ‘Not with me. When you know that I’ve –’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ I say, ‘None of that matters to me.’

He gazes at me, lips parted. His eyes stray downwards once, then back to my eyes. I do not break his gaze, but step in close, so close that I can feel his breath on my upturned face, and the heat that radiates from inside of him.

 ‘I’m here,’ I say, ‘I’m here because I choose this. I choose you.’

His gaze sinks down over my unclothed body, then slowly back up to meet mine once more.

My words are soft. ‘Do you choose me too?’

For a moment, Finnick’s eyes are molten, an ocean on fire roiling within his gaze. Then he closes his eyes, and lets out a shuddering breath.

‘Of course I choose you, Annie Cresta’ he says.

‘Then I’ll stay,’ I whisper, and his eyes flicker open, long lashes grazing shadows over his cheek bones. I lean in, reach up, bow his head gently down to mine, to touch his lips to mine.

Momentarily, he doesn’t respond, but then his mouth opens against mine and we kiss, slowly, softly, his tongue just grazing my lip. And then, delicately, he places a hand on my shoulder, fingers trembling as though he’s afraid to touch. My hands find his waist, and then he’s leaning into me.

His hands are infinitely gentle as they trail across my waist, my back, and encircle me. I am shivering with the need to touch him, craving the silk of his skin. My hands smooth their way under his shirt, up over his abdomen, and trace circles against his body.  He presses his lips to the tender skin of my neck below the ear, and leaves a trail of kisses down to my collarbone.

I pull up the material of his shirt, until softly, we break apart and he turns slightly, the bronzed muscles of his shoulders moving as he raises his arms to pull it off over his head. His back bears the faint, pale traces of a long, jagged scar, between his shoulder blades, and I trace its path with my fingers.

As we face each other once more I take one of his hands in mine and raise it, slowly, to where it cups my breast. His fingers stroke my nipple and I gasp, wrapping my arm in his hair and pulling his mouth down to meet mine once more.

I only have one night. I intend to live it.

Our kisses deepen.  When we pull apart this time, my breathing comes heavier, and in the soft lighting the sea-green of his eyes is stormy with lust.  We lock together once more and I clutch at his back, tangle my fingers through his hair, kiss him hungrily, desperately, dragging him down into me, drowning in the ache of my need, as his hands rove down over my back, my buttocks. His teeth nick at my throat as his hand moves down through the soft hair between my legs, fingers searching, gentle and my breath comes out in a short gasp.

His other arm wraps around my back and he hitches me upwards so I can swing my legs around his waist. He walks forward and gently, he lowers me onto the bed, my head sinking into the soft pillow. His eyes search mine as he moves forward to lean over me, I can see flickers of gold in their depths, and my body flushes under the heat in his gaze.

I taste the salt on his skin, kiss him, all of him, until I know his body like a handprint of my own. Our fingers interlock against the sheets. When he enters inside of me I breathe out a sigh, and we move gently, slowly together, my breath hitching with every thrust. My head thrown back, a tight kernel of heat builds within my abdomen, swelling gently through my limbs.

I push against his chest, roll us over till I am straddling him, and sink my hips forward, wrapping my hands through his hair.

His eyes are wide, starry. ‘Say my name,’ he gasps, ‘Say it.’

 ‘Finnick,’ I say, and it comes out as a moan. ‘ _Finnick.’_

His breathing builds in time with my rhythm, and our bodies are slick against each other, moving faster. The feeling inside of me bursts, trickling down through my limbs in a river of warmth, and Finnick gasps. The night air is cool against my skin.

After, we lie, limbs entwined, my body heavy with peace. Finnick’s chest rises and falls against my back. I am cradled in his arms.

'They tell me secrets,' Finnick murmurs into my hair, 'The others, I mean.’ I had thought he was sleeping. ‘I make them pay dearly for what they get from me.’

I turn to face him, run my hand across his cheek. His eyes are too deep. ‘I’m so sorry, Finnick.’ My voice aches with what I want him to understand.

‘The reason I keep Darius,’ he continues, ‘Is because it’s my fault. What happened to him, I mean.’ He swallows.  ‘And I can never let him go. I give him as much freedom as is possible. It’s the only thing I can do to – to make it up to him.’ He swallows, and his eyes flutter closed. ‘To make up for it all.’

I lean in slowly, because I know now what he needs to hear. What he has always needed to hear.

‘I forgive you,’ I whisper against his lips. ‘There is nothing to forgive. But I forgive you.’

***********************************

I awake to the warm wash of sunlight against my face, bursting colored sparks behind my eyelids. I do not open my eyes, because I feel safe. Cocooned. On the edge of my hearing, I can almost imagine the sough of surf. I lie curled in Finnick’s arms, one arm up beneath my head, which lies against his neck and shoulder, my other curved around his waist.

I shift slowly, moving my head so I can see his face. He rolls onto his back, arm rolling to splay out on the bed beside him, murmuring in his sleep. The tension in his jaw, care lines across his forehead are smoothed out, more peaceful than I have ever seen him. His hair is rumpled against the pillow.

After a while, his eyes flutter open, and he turns to the side. Gaze mottled green and gold.

‘You’re beautiful.’ His voice is utterly without guile, and I stare at him, dazed. Yet for a moment, here and now, I can believe it. Then I laugh softly.

I am Annie Cresta. Weak Annie, small Annie, Annie-can’t-kill. But I am also not those things. I am so much more. And last night I took the most desired boy in Panem to bed. Finnick Odair, Victor, killer, the boy they stole from the shore of the southern sea.

‘Finnick,’ I ask, ‘Do you ever visit us? At home?’

‘I always come back,’ he says. ‘Whenever I can, I come back.’

I frown. ‘But we never see you. No-one in the town ever sees you.’

He looks away. ‘The Finnick they want is not the one I can give them.’

I brush the edge of his face with the back of my hand. ‘What about… your family?’

Finnick says nothing, but his lips narrow, and he is staring at something far, far away that I cannot see. The realization begins somewhere inside of me, unfurls its cold tentacles through my chest.

Today begins the 70th Hunger Games.

I pull myself upright, sit on the edge of the bed, sickness churning in my stomach. A light flashes on the side of the holoscreen on the wall. _‘Finnick,’_ comes Riley’s voice over the intercom, _‘Annie isn’t responding to our calls.’_ There’s an unspoken question.

Finnick presses a button. ‘She’s awake. We’re on our way.’ He turns to me and holds out a hand. ‘Come.’

The Games don’t begin until mid-morning. Perhaps dying now would be better than living with this dread beating at the core of my numb, numb body. Finnick holds the shower head over me, and warm rivulets rush through my hair, over my breasts. His lips meet mine, once, his taste mingled with the clear water.

No one remarks as we arrive to breakfast with his hand clasped over mine, leading me on.

_This is the last time._ The food that passes my lips is tasteless. I shake hands with Aenon, Riley. Clyde. Shona. And Finnick. ‘I’ll be waiting here,’ he says, as my prep team lead me away one last time.

I am showered again, shampooed, moisturized, and Maggie takes a small, painful device to my eyebrows as Ganymede towels my hair dry. ‘No proper makeup in the Arena, of course’ she says in a small voice, ‘But your eyebrows will be the most perfect the Games have ever seen.’

Ambrosia weeps silently as she braids my hair, and then twists it into a chignon at the nape of my neck, pinned securely to my head. ‘They can shake you up and down or make you run for miles, and still this won’t come out,’ she whispers fiercely.

‘Practical,’ says Maggie, smoothing her hands down my navy blue, skin tight jumpsuit. ‘But still stylish.’  Then she gives a great hiccupping sob. The tributes’ uniform. It arrived today, nameless, packaged.

‘There. Done.’ Ganymede says, presenting me with the matching pair of soft, knee high boots, soles firm and thick. I pull them on, and they stand back, looking at me. ‘You’re the best tribute we’ve ever had,’ he says simply.

I pull him into a hug. ‘Thank you. Thank you, all of you.’ My voice breaks I swap over to Maggie, whose makeup is still immaculate although she has tears everywhere. Finally, I turn to Ambrosia.

‘Oh, honeyplum,’ she says, and squeezes me so hard my ribs ache. I cling to her. ‘It’s been an absolute honor. Now go out, be fierce, be fabulous, and if you come back I’ll be the happiest woman in all of Panem.’ When we finally part, she looks me up and down, before wiping at her eyes with a sniff. ‘I have never been so proud.’

Ophelia is standing behind. ‘Annie.’ Slowly, she folds me into her arms. ‘You should know,’ her voice is a murmur, ‘That Ambrosia pawned her best hair piece to try and secure you a sponsorship. Don’t mention it; she’s mortified.’ My affection for my prep team – my _friends –_ swells greater and spills out as a sob. Ophelia continues, even softer. ‘You should also know that if you make it out, there are those of us who might like to see this all ended.’

My heart skips a beat. ‘You’re with Senator D’Archour.’

But before I can ask more, Ophelia pulls away. ‘Back straight,’ she says, ‘Remember your training.’

‘Strong, calm and poised,’ I say automatically.

‘Exactly,’ Ophelia nods. ‘Sponsors matter in the Arena, more than ever. And Annie – good luck.’

***********************************

A plane lowers down to a landing circle on the roof, engines roaring wind through my ears and shifting the collar of Aenon’s suit. And then a gangway lowers, and peacekeepers take us in and buckle us into hard plastic seats, Shona and Clyde opposite. The penthouse drops away, and the last thing I see is a small group of figures, black against the grey roof, in the slimming rectangle before the hatch shuts. Then Capitol is gone. Tributes and mentors, sitting in a cabin with no windows, rushing through the sky to god knows where. To the Arena. The light is harsh and metallic, and even could we speak above the roar of engines, I would not dare with the blank helmeted peacekeepers standing by.

_It’_ _s coming._ Shelleysticks cuts into the skin of my crushing fingers.

When we land and the door lowers, I barely have time to take in the vast hangar before we are marched down a series of ever narrowing corridors. We lose Clyde, and two of the peacekeepers, and then two more as doors swish shut behind us. I’m facing a small circular platform.

I have one minute.

I turn to Finnick. ‘You know what this is, Annie.’ His fingers brush my arm. There’s a horrible spark of hope in his eyes. ‘Annie, this is wetsuit material. We were right. There’s going to be water –’

‘Shh,’ I say, and press my lips to his. ‘I know.’

‘Promise me,’ he says, when we pull apart. ‘Promise me that you won’t end it. That you’ll keep fighting.’

I look up at him, my eyes wet. ‘Finnick, I –’

‘Don’t give up,’ he snarls, ‘Don’t you dare ever give up. Not until there’s breath left in you.’

‘And if I’m cornered?’ my voice is breaking, ‘If there’s no other way?’ I swallow. ‘No, Finnick. I can’t promise that. When I die – if I die – it’s going to be on my own terms.’

Finnick closes his eyes, there’s a track of a tear glistening down his cheek.

‘But I do promise that I’ll keep fighting,’ I say, and I mean it. ‘I’ll keep fighting until I have no other choice.’

Finnick leans forward to press his lips against my forehead.

_Tributes._ A smooth automated, female voice. _Step into your capsules._

He leans down to rest our foreheads together, our hands clutched between us. Finnick’s eyes closed, breathing slowly. But my eyes are open, because I want to remember this face, every inch of it scarred deep into my memory so that whatever happens over the next few hours I will never forget the dapple of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the lines drawn at the edges of the curled bow of his lips, the pale whorl of the teardrop spangled in his eyelashes.

_Ascent commencing in ten._

For a brief, insane moment, I consider disobeying. Bursting past Finnick and running back into the corridors. But I know if I did so the peacekeepers would end my life in a moment. God knows what will happen to my family.

There is no option but to play by the rules. None of us have any option but to play by the rules.

But not quite.

I grasp him towards me, and against his ear, I whisper.

‘Finnick. I spoke to Desirée D’Archour. She says that on the third day of the Games, at midday, you should go to the café opposite the old parliament house on Victory Avenue. She said you’d know them by their coat.’

‘What?’

‘She’s with us. You. Johanna. I don’t know, but there’s hope Finnick.’ My voice breaks. ‘You will find a way to change people’s minds someday. Politicians. Maybe even the President. And then no one else will have to die. Take this,’ I say softly, and press Shelleysticks into his hand. ‘Give it back to Finny. And tell him I’ll always be watching over him.’

And I cling to these burning thoughts with my teeth and the edges of my fingernails. It’s this thought that allows me to step backwards, to pull away, and to stand onto the platform of the capsule.

Finnick exhales, head lowered, and he opens his eyes. They’re a deep, aching ocean green. ‘When I saw you – at the choosing ceremony -  I thought there was nothing any of us could do for you. That you were a lost cause. But I was wrong. You are braver than me, Annie.’

_Five._

His hand clasps round Shelleysticks, lacing our fingers together, and he presses a kiss against my knuckles. ‘Annie,’ Finnick’s voice is rough. His throat works to say something, and I think he is about to quip, to make one of those Finnick jokes. And then he stops. When he speaks it comes out lightly, delicately.

_Three._

He presses my brother’s doll back into my hands. ‘Come back to me, Annie.’

_Two._

Glass sheathes closed in front of my face, and everything becomes oddly silent. My heart beats a harsh staccato, and a sickness stirs cold in my stomach. I press my hands to the glass, and he places his against mine on the other side, fingers longer than mine, almost nut brown from two decades of the District 4 sun, tips still callused from years of tying twine, casting nets into the ocean. Hands that have been washed in blood, hands that have held me. And I love the whole of them.

_One._

The panel beneath my feet begins to move, Finnick tilts his head upwards, for a moment his eyes flash, like sunlight glancing off the surface of the ocean, and then he is gone.

And my capsule rushes upwards towards the Arena.


	2. Weather With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Arena is a city, drowned and crumbling into the ocean. My hand trails through the cool slime of seaweed, and my face burns where salt and sun reach my pores. I stare up at the sun and all I see is white, a halo of light bleaching the sky. Waves slap and suck at the rock where I lie, in time with the ragged pull of my breath. I thought the cornucopia would be the end, but it wasn’t. I’m still alive. And I’m not going to play their game. I’m not going to kill. When I die, it will be on my own terms. And I will not let them turn me into a murderer.
> 
> This is the story of Annie and Finnick. This is the story of how they loved, how they lived, and how they brought each other back from the edge. Welcome to The 70th Hunger Games. (Part 2/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julius Caesar  
> and the Roman Empire  
> couldn't conquer  
> the blue sky.
> 
> \- Crowded House, Weather With You

***********************************

I close my eyes, control my breathing. In, out. In, out.

_Finny. Marcus. Mom and Dad._

_Finnick._

The blackness turns red as the capsule lifts up into sunlight. Bright, bright sunlight, and I open my eyes. My stomach lurches.

The sea.

All around, waves lapping at the foot of the base on which I stand. Sunlight glinting off its surface, forcing me to squint, but it is clear immediately that the Arena, as far as I can see, is ocean. Ocean cut through with stacks of obsidian and jumbled islands of granite, crumbling, in midnight, red, beige, blue. Not rocks. Hewn stone. Brick. Ruins, rising up from the waves. My lungs are swelling fit to burst. Water. _The sea._

 _‘Welcome, tributes,’_ booms a voice, _‘To the 60 th Hunger Games! After a five second countdown the Games will commence. May the odds be ever in your favor.’_

_Bleep._

The twenty four of us stand, ranged in a circle around a tiny island which rises, black and jagged from the water. Nestled amongst it is the hulking mass of the cornucopia. Other than this, the nearest piece of land to me is about fifty meters off to my left.

_Bleep._

Each tribute stands opposite their partner in the circle. Clyde is hidden from me by the cornucopia island. Demera clenches and unclenches her fists. Matteo breathes heavily, face determined. Tears track slowly down Fannia’s cheeks. Juno’s eyes glitter.

_Bleep._

And then one of the tributes steps calmly off their platform.

There is a sharp crack and flicker of light as the body spasms, instantly electrocuted by the forcefield which surrounds each platform. My heart lurches into my mouth as the body hits the waves. 

 _Bleep._ And then the boom of a cannon. Thorborn’s corpse bobs gently in the water.

_Bleep._

Perhaps he wasn’t a coward after all.

**_Bleep._ **

I throw myself off the platform, and the sea smacks my head, closes around my face. The shock makes me snort some water into my nose but I ignore the urge to sneeze, and swim. The water clouds, bubbling, as twenty three bodies thrash through the waves. I swim as I have never swum before, my arms pumping almost as fast as the adrenaline bursting through my body. _Get away. Get away from the cornucopia._

Something dark looms through the water. My foot catches, scrapes, and there are shallow rocks beneath me. I push to my feet, gasp for air, the first breath I have taken, and continue to stagger onwards towards the hulk of the nearest island.

Screams cut through the ragged sound of my own breathing. And I do the worst thing I could have done.

I turn to look behind me.

Jet Steer is cut down with a sickle sword, blood spraying in an arc from his ruptured throat. Kayn straddles Faeme across the shore, who is screaming, screaming, not screaming as he smashes her head against a rock. Halcyon and Indigo hack, arms and swords, back to back against the twins. Quiver scrambles across the top of the cornucopia, and turns once to fire an arrow at Epiphany behind her, before diving smoothly off the end.

And then a siren, a goddess rears up out of the water in front of me, water streaming through her long blonde hair, teeth bared in murder. I don’t even feel the first punch before I am under, struggling, Cashmere’s fingers closed around my throat.

Kicking, screaming inside, I thrash out for something, anything to clutch on to. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

 _But Annie,_ says a voice, bleeding through the pounding in my head, _you don’t need to breathe._

I go limp. For less than a second, her arms relax. And then I push off from the bottom with all of my strength, jabbing my arm straight out as I have done a thousand times this week. I slam my rigid fingers into her throat. She gasps, and the hold on my neck loosens, just enough for me to do it again, harder. And then I throw myself back into the water, in and out, my arms race through the waves, salt burning my eyes. _Don’t stop._ _Get as far as you possibly can._

I burst on through the water, not thinking, only repeating my mantra in my head, get away, get away, in time with the swinging of my aching, burning muscles. I kick my legs until each kick is little more than a soft flop at the water around me, and then grating rock, grit against my thighs, cutting my outstretched fingers and I’m crawling. Salt water rushes down my face, and I retch, once for the water, and again, for the small round _oh_ of Jet Steer mouthing his surprise, another for the blood plastering Ettie’s hair across her face, and for the glaze over Thorborn’s sightless eyes. I cough up spit, body racked with the pain of forcing up bile it can no longer produce, strands of saliva trailing from my mouth onto the rocks beneath me, but not once do I stop clambering, over, over and away. Only when my muscles no longer respond to the instructions of my brain do I stop. I should have killed her. I should have killed her. She’ll be after me and I should have killed her.

I lie against the mottled back of a grey wall, and the barnacles on the rock pinch where they dig into my neck and back. To my front, the paved slabs I sit on wend into the water, cracked, losing their marble sheen to the green of vegetation beneath the waves. To my back, architecture rises. Pockmarked rows of columns proudly rising through the water, smashed pedestals of long gone statues, half sunk alleyways with walls hot in the burning sun. The Arena is a city, drowned and crumbling into the ocean.

My hand trails through the cool slime of seaweed, and my face burns where salt and sun reach my pores. I stare up at the sun and all I see is white, a halo of light bleaching the sky. Waves slap and suck at the rock where I lie, in time with the ragged pull of my breath.

I thought the cornucopia would be the end, but it wasn’t. I’m still alive. And I’m not going to play their game. I’m not going to kill. When I die, it will be on my own terms. And I will not let them turn me into a murderer.

For now I cannot make my body move further, and so I let myself lie, huddled against the wall. It leans out over the water at an angle making it more like an overhang. I scan the water back in the direction I have come for movement. I can still make out the cornucopia, a twisted hulk of rock in the far distance, and over the sound of my heart, over the sound of the waves, perhaps I can hear shouting.

Something cold rubs against my foot, and I shimmy backwards to get a better look. The sea weed conceals a pattern, a spiraled pattern of aquamarine. I scrape away more quickly, trying to swallow down the cough that threatens to scratch my salt-burned throat. I smooth away the surface to reveal a circular mosaic in the ground. The smooth smile and closed eyes of an aquamarine sun, fiery halo surrounding it in cold shades of blue, chips of glass and rock. It is slightly raised from the surface that surrounds it, and there’s a crack in between. My breath hitches in excitement.

I dig my fingers into the crack, stone bruising against my hands, and heave. With a slow, low grind, the sun comes loose, and then I am staring down through a well, about two feet wide, into a small cave carved ruggedly out between two sheer walls of rock. Sunlight casts a silhouette of my head against the ground, perhaps three meters down.

I am suddenly all too aware of the silence that surrounds me, and the back of my neck prickles. _Hide._ I let myself drink in the blue of the horizon for a moment, and then swing myself down through the hole. Bracing my feet against the walls on either side, I drag the lid back towards me with one hand, and a hand full of seaweed with the other. I won’t be able to disguise it well, but it could be enough. I hope to god it’s enough.

I leave a crescent shaped sliver of light, and just wide enough for my fingers. My arms ache again by the time I have navigated myself down to the bottom without slipping from the walls, and I sit down, breathing hard.

The cave is bigger than I thought it was to begin with. The sea weed dappled light allows me to run my fingers around the walls, and I find it extends off in one direction by about fifteen metres. The stone is rough, naturally formed, and slick to the touch.

There is nothing else here but curious little snails which glow in the dark. There is no food, no water but the slime which trickles down the walls. But now that I am safe – as safe as I can be – there is no way in hell I’m going to be able to make myself leave again.

 And so I sit down, and wait. Like a rabbit in its bolt hole, I stay for as long as I dare, sitting on my heels and staring at the wall. I stay for as long as it takes for the thin whine of fear inside of my brain to grow to a scream.  


And still I stay, unmoving, the way brain soiled Faeme’s hair as her skull smashed open replaying, replaying in my mind.

***********************************

_‘Well, that was as bloody as we’d expect from the first morning – and what a show it was!’_ _Caesar Flickerman’s laugh is broad and hearty. ‘Welcome back to the official live commentary on this year’s Hunger Games. The count stands at 21 – that’s three tributes down and out, folks. This many tributes haven’t survived the cornucopia for several years now,’ He turns to Claudius Templesmith. ‘At first I was disappointed, but then I found myself rooting for them to get away! That unexpected last minute double act of Halcyon and Indigo was really something ferocious.’_

_‘I completely agree, Caesar,’ says Claudius, ‘That was an alliance formed in the heat of battle right there – and I have to say it’s a testament to the sheer quality of the tributes we’ve had this year that so many of them managed to fight their way out as both those boys did. If I was young Quiver Starne, for example, and I had a moment in between all the running – or rather, swimming –  right now I’d be feeling rather proud of myself.’_

_‘Clearly, we’ve got some excellent competition this year,’ says Caesar, ‘And as you say, possibly from some unexpected quarters too. That last minute escape by District 4 darling Annie Cresta was a stroke of either sheer genius, or sheer luck. But Claudius, how long does luck last?’_

_‘I wouldn’t speak too soon if I were you, Caesar,’ says Claudius with a grin, ‘_ _As I’m sure you know, once the alliances are truly settled, that’s when the mopping up of the weaker tributes will really get started.’_

_‘Absolutely,’_ _Caesar replies, ‘And I’m sure the remaining tributes are looking forward to the real test getting into swing. It was such a shame to see District 5’s Thorborn Yule go so soon, and in such inglorious fashion.’ He lifts a sheet of paper from the desk, ‘I’ve just had confirmation in from the Gamemakers that that little slip of his was indeed, sheer accident.’ His grin never falters. ‘A loss for the Games indeed, and a sore disappointment for District 5.’_

_‘Although,’ Claudius chimes in, ‘The novelty of losing a tribute before the canon even fired certainly did get our adrenaline racing here at the commentary desk. Caesar says he’s seen everything in the Games, but I swear he almost fell off his seat!’ He grins at the camera. ‘And now, back to the Arena.’_

It’s the thirst that drives me out. My throat feels like it’s been filled with rocks. The thin film of moisture I scraped from the well walls does nothing to sooth the burning, and leaves the rank taste of mold in my mouth. As I lift the cover the light seers my eyes, sun low in the sky. I peer around, thudding heartbeat reminding me that I may no longer be alone. But there’s no one here, and so, with no direction, with no goal, I begin to search.

With the setting sun the air cools, and long indigo shadows stretch out amongst the ruins. My ears are peeled for the trickle of running water, but there is nothing. I fall to my knees at a dank puddle but it is still just sea water. I’m not only parched, but starving too. I break open a mussel against a rock but it oozes out thick black slime.

My head starts to spin with the thirst. I stumble round a corner into an open roofed courtyard, crumpled stone throwing long, stark shadows in the evening sun. Ocean glitters through the broken back wall. I have gone all around the island, and there may be nothing for it but to swim to the next one and keep searching. I fall to my knees beside a wall, spots in my vision, walls of my throat moving painfully to take in the salt tinged air. And after that? Keep swimming to the next island? Search again, and again? When does it stop?

I hear it before I see it. A soft, mechanical chirrup. I squint upwards, and a small parachute drifts lazily down from the blue towards me.

The gift clatters to the ground of the courtyard, cloth parachute collapsing gracefully. A case of clear plastic encases a metal cylinder – an auto-filter canteen. Like any you might find in the goods shop back home, like the one Dad takes with him every day out to the boats.

Water.

 _Thank you._ My body shakes a noiseless sob of relief. I stumble forward into the atrium.

Then someone darts between two shadows in front of me. Panicking along with the pounding in my skull, I throw myself forward, crouching behind the shattered remains of a fountain. I’m so stupid. In my desperation to collect the gift I’d forgotten to even check around corners.

I’m trapped. Whoever it is blocking my route to the gift, and they will probably kill me to take it. If I run back I will be completely exposed.  Either way, I lose my only chance to drink.

My breathing comes shallow, and I can hear the same shallow breaths ahead. Neither of us has moved. Whoever they are is crouched behind masonry just as I am, desperate just as I am, perhaps panicked just as I am. One of us is going to have to make a break for it, and I need that canteen, god I _need_ it –

With a scream I throw myself out from behind the fountain, arms whirling in front of my face, legs pounding against the floor as I run, run even though my ragged throat feels like it will bleed. There’s a cry of frustration and the thud of feet on my right as I swing my arms down, scoop up the canister and parachute and try to dive over the far wall to the sea. But my stride was slowed too much, and I am smashed into the foot of the wall by a body not much bigger than mine. It’s a girl, she’s stronger than me, and as I try to hold the canteen above my head her arms lock my wrists, and I scream, try to kick out at her.

‘I have a knife!’ she says. ‘I have a knife. Give me the canteen.’ There is a flash of something in her hand – a piece of rough quartz. ‘Give it to me _now!’_ It’s Fannia, frizzes of orange hair coming loose around her face, her voice a tremor, eyes wild.

‘No,’ I choke, ‘Stop – ’ My voice barely  works, ‘Share,’ I croak, ‘We can share it.’

‘What?’ she sputters. My wrists are bleeding where her nails dig into my skin.

‘We can share it. Water. Allies – or – just share water. Please.’

Her face is burnt red from the sun and exhaustion, eyes flicking between mine and the canteen.

‘Please,’ I say again, and this time it’s a barely understandable. It’s pitiful. She won’t help me out of pity. ‘I can help you. I know somewhere good to hide.’

‘How do I know you’re not lying?’ she says.

‘Please,’ I say. I have nothing else.

Fannia is still breathing heavily. ‘Alright,’ she says at last, ‘But I’m taking it first.’ I nod, and slowly, she releases her grip on my wrists. She moves back, quartz piece held out in front of her, legs slightly crouched in a stance like a fighter from an old holovid. She beckons with her fingers, and unhook the parachute to place the capsule in her hand. ‘Take me to your hiding place,’ she says, and her voice sounds stronger now.

‘Water,’ I murmur, and gesture at her. ‘First water.’

She nods. We step over the fallen wall, Fannia still holding her makeshift knife out between us. ‘Fill it,’ she says, tossing the capsule towards me. I unscrew the capsule and pull out the cool metal, then crouch at the waves before her. My eyes turn wet with relief as the canteen runs over with sea water which in a minute will be pure. It is all I can do not to drink it on the spot. The sun turns blood red on the sea, already starting to sink below the waves. I shiver. We take turns to gulp desperately from the flask, filling it again and again.

And then, shakily, I lead our way back to the other side of the island. The thought that I won’t be able to find the well amongst these endless ruins sends a sick chill through my stomach, but as we turn down a cobbled dip into the sea, down on the ground beneath an overhang, the edges of a turquoise mosaic catch the last rays of sunlight.

 _How do you know she won’t kill you when you’re down there?_ It’s my voice again. But I am too exhausted to care. Once we have heaved ourselves inside the well, we sit at opposite sides of the cramped cave, eyes on each other in the low phosphorescent glow.

‘Who do you think sponsored you?’ I ask. ‘Sent the canteen?’

‘I don’t think anyone sponsored me,’ says Fannia.

I don’t reply, but lean my head back against the rock, eyes closed. I’m not sure how much longer I can fight off the exhaustion.

***********************************

I wake up with a start, to the soft bubble of water. Fannia is still here, head forward against her knees, snoring softly.

Hang on. Water?

My feet are wet, and I stand up quickly. There’s a pool in the middle of the cave, ripples in the center where a spring has appeared. I stand up, because in a moment the water has spread out to reach the walls, and the level is rising. Not just that, but it’s glowing – glowing a soft phosphorescent blue.

‘Fannia,’ I say, ‘Fannia!’ I’m already at the well shaft, scrambling upwards, when Fannia wakes with a cry, and wades towards me. The water is rising with incredible speed, past waist height now, shoulder height, and Fannia is swimming below me, being lifted up into the shaft.

My fingers scramble at the edges of the stone cover. ‘It’s stuck,’ I hiss, and shove my full weight upwards with my shoulders. ‘Hurry up,’ says Fannia, staring up at me from where she is braced against the walls lower down the shaft. ‘It’s at my knees. And it’s warm – hot.’ She’s right. I’m sweating. And it’s not just with exertion. Steam is rising from the water, steam that stings my eyes and the back of my throat and makes me cough. ‘Annie, _hurry!’_

With a grunt of effort I shift the cover, and it scrapes across the ground. I burst into the fresh night air, not even bothering to check around me, clamber out, then spin around to take the canteen from Fannia’s outstretched arm and grab her around the wrist.

Fannia cries out. ‘It’s burning, oh god –’ The water level is around her waist as she gets both arms out the top of the shaft, and the cave below is completely submerged. I heave and then she’s out, and we’re spread gasping, coughing on the ground, tears of pain streaming from swollen eyes, Fannia moaning.

And then two arms grasp Fannia from behind and drag her up, and sling her body back into the shaft. There’s a thick splash and a shriek, a horrifying, bubbling shriek through the hot steam that doesn’t end even as the figure slams the mosaic cover back in place. I am scrambling backwards away, desperate to get to my feet, and I can still hear Fannia’s muffled screaming.

‘This gets easier,’ says Demera Rooksblood, her face hard, ‘The more you do it.’ She strides forward and bright bursts of light fill my vision as her fist connects with my jaw. With a grunt of effort she heaves me over her shoulder and I bite down on the back of her left arm, as hard as I am able with my head see-sawing and vision blinded. High above me a cannon blast echoes against the sky.

Then there’s a roar as a tower of water and steam bursts from the ground, and a wet crack as a mosaic aquamarine sun takes Demera in the chin and chest. I thud to the ground on my back, Demera on top of me, water everywhere hissing, fizzing as it hits the ground. I cry out, because my arms are burning, legs are burning, everything that the glowing liquid touches burning. I scramble out from beneath her, sobbing, and the last thing I see before I black out behind a pile of rubble is the two brown eyes staring out above the bloody cavity where Demera’s jaw used to be.

 

***********************************

_‘_ _Acid,’ Caesar almost laughs, ‘Now that’s genius. I don’t think any of us saw that coming.’_

_‘This acid is actually caused by a particular species of plankton,’ says Claudius Templesmith, ‘Developed by the ‘Makers, course. The plankton absorbs sunlight during the day, which at night triggers the phosphorescent glow, and the release of a gas which reacts with water to create an extremely potent acid. They’ve called it Sunburn. Quite clever, don’t you think?’_

_‘Well,’ says Caesar, ‘Sunburn is certainly going to make things interesting tonight. And now, back the Arena.’_

It’s nearly three am, but the lights of the Capitol never sleep.

‘Turn that off, Finnick,’ Tanquila says, ‘You’ve spent all day staring at that screen.’ She huffs, and strides around the sofa, shimmering night gown flowing as she walks. ‘For goodness sake, it’s not like you to become so distracted.’

‘It’s the Games,’ Finnick says. ‘I can’t help be distracted.’

Tanaquila’s eyes narrows, ‘It’s not the Games. It’s that girl. And I want you to stop watching.’

‘How can I,’ Finnick says, ‘When I’m the one who’s supposed to be keeping her alive.’

With a clap of her hands, the sound of Caesar’s voiceover dims and the screen darkens. Tanaquila folds herself over him, and pushes him back down into the sofa. ‘The little brat can keep herself alive,’ she purrs, and reaches down to kiss his lips. Finnick tries to shift but her legs straddle him, long nailed hands run down his chest, pinning him down.

‘For now, I want your undivided attention,’ she murmurs, hitching her gown from her shoulders before bending to kiss him once more.

Finnick makes a soft noise against her lips, and reaches up to caress her bare, pale shoulders. He remembers tanned skin, a blush of freckles over a back –

 _No._ In one fluid movement, Finnick twists their bodies over and rolls from the sofa.

Tanaquila’s cat eyes gaze up at him. ‘What’s wrong, darling?’

Finnick’s breath catches. He glances to one side – the door to the bedroom they share. Something clenches in his throat.

Tanaquila sighs. ‘Oh, but you were always so _good.’_ She sighs. ‘I know how hard it can be, sometimes. But we can’t always get what we want. She’ll be dead soon, and you’ll forget her.’

Finnick tries to say that he doesn’t need to forget anything. But that would be a lie, because when she touched him just now it was someone else’s lips he was feeling.

‘I can’t,’ he says, ‘Not tonight.’

Tanaquila unfolds herself from the sofa, toes sinking into the carpet. Her voice is cold. ‘Oh, but you will.’

Finnick takes a step back. ‘No. I can’t.’

Tanaquila laughs, a low chuckle that makes him feel ill. ‘You can’t? You can’t because you don’t want to. Because you’re all forlorn. Caught up in a little fantasy romance you’ve created for yourself.’ Her cat’s eyes are hard as silver. ‘Or did you think that little gift came for free? That it was a token of my dear, _dear_ affection?’ She reaches up to stroke his face, her red lips pouting. ‘You poor, silly boy.’

Tanaquila leans in to kiss him, and without thinking he jerks back.

_Fuck._

Tanaquila’s eyes narrow, and she yanks his head forward by the hair. ‘You ungrateful little shit,’ she snarls. ‘Have you forgotten who you are? I spent a lot of money on your tribute today. Out of the goodness of my own fucking heart. Because I thought it might be fun. Because you _begged_ me to.’

Finnick’s breathing comes shallow, and he tenses his fingers to stop them shaking, to stop them from reaching up to rip her hand away from his head, to shove her away from him. Tanaquila trails a finger down his chest, and gives a light tap against his sternum.  ‘Who is it that keeps you safe, little Finnick? Who is it that makes sure the President thinks you’re just a sweet, dim boy? That you don’t need to be… reconditioned?’

He’s had years to practice apathy, to greet people who’ve bought the right to him with a disarming smile and utter disinterest. But now there is someone else at stake, and he loathes this woman with a fury that makes it difficult to breathe. For a moment, he imagines snapping her neck.

Then he kisses her.

‘Mm-hmm,’ Tanaquila murmurs, ‘That’s what I thought.’

Finnick looks over her head, at the dark window where his face is a pale moon of reflection. She pulls his open shirt from his shoulders.  She places her hands on him and his breath hitches, because she knows how to make his body respond. He swallows the bile rising in his throat.

 ‘Good boy.’ Tanquila’s scarlet lips split into a grin. ‘That’s better.’

***********************************

_Get up._

_Get up._

_GET UP._

Oh, it’s back. I haven’t heard the voice in my head in ages. I almost thought it might have gone forever.

_GET UP, ANNIE._

My shoulder feels dull and heavy. I become aware of the pain as if I’m floating on it, my consciousness skimming the surface of something vast and draining, pulsing and burning. I know its rock beneath me, but right now it is soft, malleable against my skin. If I open my eyes, if I drag myself from this stupor, it’ll all come flooding through, and it’ll be unbearable.

_GET UP NOW, ANNIE._

I’m not going to do what it says. Won’t that be funny. I’m going to ignore the voice, and I almost smile at the thought.

There’s something different this time.

_GET UP AND RUN._

It’s not my voice. Not like I know it.

It’s Finnick.

Finnick is my voice, and I open my eyes to the blinding morning sunshine. I am lying arms akimbo beside the pile of masonry where I collapsed last night. Where – god. Fannia, screaming, shut in a tiny tube to drown in burning agony. My hands, side of my neck, everywhere the acid hit me is burning with a driving itch. My lower legs – the material of my skin suit has been entirely melted away, and the patches of my skin below are raised, raw and red.

_ANNIE, RUN._

And then the fear hits me, rushes of goosebumps across my skin. _I am utterly exposed._ I scramble into a crouch.

‘There! There’s someone over there.’

I choke down on terror and press myself into the side of the rock. Figures up on higher ground, backs to the light, leap over the tumbled brickwork and splash through the shallows.

There is nothing I can do but run. And as soon as I run, joyous whoops behind me sound the call to hunt.

I smash off a wall as I sprint, feet spattering in the puddles of the corridor, sobbing with terror, gasping for air. The walls tilt around me, flashes of color, plaster faces with their eyes gouged out. A girl’s laughter rattles off the walls.

I lurch sideways in horror because one of the tributes is to my right, almost on me already –

But it isn’t a Career. It’s another girl, scrambling away like me, her face alight with fear. It’s Quiver Starne.

Behind me there’s more whooping, a call back and forth. The Careers are laughing as they come to kill us.

_Don’t look behind don’t look behind._

Suddenly, I am running side by side with Quiver, her bow slung over her back. Then she shoves out with her arms at me, and I stumble, cutting my knees on a paving slab. Gasping, I scramble back up to my feet, following her now as she darts between walls, making leaps and turning corners I would never have been able to notice in time myself.

_Split up, Annie. Don’t follow her! Maybe they haven’t seen both of you!_

But then we both see it off to our left – a hollow, a horizontal sandwich slice between two rocks. And now it's a race, dashing towards it, and I’m overtaking and my hands are in the rock, feet desperately kicking as I desperately try to swing myself inside. But I am almost too big to fit.

Quiver scratches at my legs, and I resist the urge to cry out as she pulls me down.

_Any sound will let them know where you are._

There’s a sharp stone in her hand which she raises, small hand twisted in my hair. We tumble to the ground, rocks stabbing my back. ‘Stop,’ I gasp, grasping her arms as she strains to scratch it in my eyes, ‘Stop, you can have it, I’ll let you have it.’ Her wide eyes widen further and in that moment I manage to push the young girl off me, rolling over. I stumble to my feet, Quiver with her back to the rock and weapon outstretched. ‘Take it,’ I say, ‘I won’t hurt you. Just take it. Or neither of us will make it.’

The cries of the Careers are louder now. I glance around; Clyde slings himself over a rock and keeps running, not fifty meters behind us. Quiver’s eyes flick once to where Victory’s dark shape skips between two broken columns. Then she leaps upward, pushing her bow and quiver and pack into the hollow before sliding herself in deftly afterwards.

 _I hope she makes it._ I am already running.

 _Annie, you are so stupid,_ says Finnick’s voice in my head, _so, so stupid. You could have taken her out. Taken her out and taken her hiding place._

But that’s not me, Finnick. That didn’t even occur to me.

 I don’t stop running.

***********************************

 ‘God,’ Finnick rubs at his face with his hands, ‘God, Annie, you would. Only you. _Fuck_.’

‘Well that’s blown it,’ Johanna says drily, ‘They’ll catch her now.’

‘They might not,’ says Finnick.

‘Yes, and after that adorable, selfless action they’ll decide to let her go,’ Johanna says. ‘The girl is a moron, and the fact that she’s still alive is nothing short of ridiculous.’ She stands with a huff. ‘Especially when _my_ tribute is already a fucking corpse. I’m leaving. You should get some sleep.’

Finnick doesn’t reply, because his eyes are locked on the screen, where the Careers are slowing down to a trot, making their search more methodical. Closing in on the crack in the rocks. Johanna stands silent by the door, for a moment, then she sighs. And comes back, flinging herself down on the sofa beside Finnick.

‘God,’ she says, ‘Those Careers are all little shits.’

_Victory gives a wild laugh of – well – Victory. ‘Found her! I’ve found the bitch!’_

_The other Careers in the alliance come into view, Indigo, Clyde, and little Halcyon, leaping over a broken wall with a dagger between his teeth._

_‘Kid’s really squeezed herself in tight.’_ _Clyde’s voice is as calm as if he were talking about his cousin playing hide and seek._

_‘Well we’ll drag her out. Drag her out right now and kill her,’ Halcyon is high pitched, eager._

_‘There’s no need,’ Indigo says. ‘The water is already rising. And come evening…’_

_‘No,’ says Victory, pacing in front of the rocks. The camera pans in to where we can just see the glistening of two eyes, a curl of hair protruding from the dark crevice. Victory bares her teeth. ‘I’ll get her. I’m slim enough to fit.’_

_‘So am I,’ Halcyon whines. ‘I want to do it. Let me. Let me kill her.’_

_Victory sneers. ‘Get back, kiddo. This one is mine.’_

_She lunges forward, but Quiver is quicker. She swings her legs round out from her hiding place, Victory’s head snapping back as she is caught in the cheek. Somehow Quiver is drawing her bow even as she lands on two feet, and the arrow goes straight through Victory, mouth open in surprise as she staggers and folds to the floor. But it’s still three against one, and Quiver is only fourteen. Indigo’s machete knocks her arm to the ground before she has the chance to draw another arrow, and though she tries to run it’s only a moment until Clyde has leapt onto her back, arms round her neck, bringing her down, and Halcyon is laughing, laughing –_

Finnick looks away as the girl’s scream cuts short with a snap.

_‘Oh, that was a nasty one,’ says Caesar, ‘But very impressive.’_

_‘Yes, I can’t say we expected a Career to be taken out by a young thing like Quiver!’_

_‘Really, Caesar? It’s only two years since Johanna Mason! And you know what I always say – never underestimate little girls.’_

_They both laugh._

I’m shaking with cold and my hair hangs in damp tendrils across my face. _Keep moving_ , says Finnick’s voice, _don’t stop moving, because that’s when they kill you._

_Don’t stop moving._

But I stopped. I stopped because I saw the hovercraft ascend, Quiver’s body swinging limply from the cables, and I know that I just might have a chance to find something.

I struggle to retrace my footsteps back to that slit in the rock, every nerve on edge. Here I am, with my arm deep inside the shallow, stony crack, reaching… _yes._

I pull out a small pack. Clearly the Careers were too stupid to check.

I struggle with the zip, and reach inside. Ow. I jab my fingers against something sharp, but as I drag the curved metal objects into the light I have to choke down a sob, teeth chattering. Fish hooks and twine.  _Thank you, Quiver._

Within minutes I have set up rudimentary lines down the side of a channel cutting through part of the island, and I crouch down to wait. Then I notice a fleshy sprig of seaweed curling over the side of a rock. My fingers fumble through the cool, slick clump. I drag out a thick band of the stuff and almost laugh – redwort. We have this at home. Most importantly, we eat this at home. I stuff the piece into my mouth. It's salty and tough and tastes vaguely of fish, and I chew it down desperately, hands already scrabbling for more.  
  
Crouched there, filling my shrunken stomach on seaweed, shallow relief washes over me. The water slaps gently against the side of a cracked marble dome out to sea, bathing it in its eerie blue glow. In the distance, a white tower –  like a lighthouse –  marks the highest point I can see. Behind, more buildings, more ocean, more islands silhouetted against the glow of early morning.  I know it’s holographic, but I still believe that the Arena goes on forever.

A prickling sensation down my spine.

_I stopped moving._

Kayn Staw steps out from behind a wall, a grin on his face and knuckledusters bristling along his fists.

And then I’m running once more.

***********************************

_A news anchor with a tight collar interviews Daisy M’beka and a red haired woman with a Capitol approved smile._

_‘_ _Miss M’beka, I simply can’t agree with you,’ she is saying, ‘Every year, the competition gets higher and the Games get more exciting. The more Careers, the better.’_

_‘But that’s just the problem,’ Daisy says, ‘The Games are simply becoming too professionalized. All of the non-Careers being wiped out within hours, and then gaps of days, sometimes even as much as a week, before people start getting killed again. Worse, sometimes it has the opposite effect and the Games are over in a matter of three days or less. Career wins are almost certain. There’s no point rooting for anyone else anymore. That isn’t entertainment.’_

_‘_ _Ms Lowett,’ the anchor finally manages to get a word in edgeways, ‘How would you respond to that? How, in your opinion, could the Games be improved?’_

_The red haired woman smiles, ‘The Gamemakers are constantly researching ways to update and improve the Games themselves. Why this year, the President ordered –’_

_‘This isn’t about improving them,’ Daisy interrupts, ‘This is about making them viable, sustainable. And in their current format they just aren’t.’ The red haired woman frowns in her picture frame. ‘The Capitol ought to be focusing on tribute selection, not just expanding the size of the Arena. We need to be investing more in the lesser Districts – improving their medical facilities, their infrastructure, their nutrition. So their tributes have a real chance. People like to have a wild card, and recent ratings reflect that more than ever.’_

***********************************

I stumble into the edge of a doorframe as I run. Shelleysticks smacks from my hand and flies into the water. ‘No!’

But the pool is deep and dark, I have no idea where the doll has fallen and no time to find it. I keep running.  _Do not look back._

I dash around a corner, swerving around a shattered well head. There. In the shell of a building to my right, backing onto the sea, a triangle gap where a roof has caved in against the gutted foundations of the second story. I can fit, I can see it from here. Maybe Kayn can too but I’m too late, there’s no time, and I’m already climbing, hands clutching at the ruined brick work.

I’m sobbing, scraping my hands and legs as I drag them around into this small space. Kayn grunts as he yanks his body up over the ledge, and I press my back into the wall so every protrusion stabs into my skin. He lunges forward again, and his shoulders slide through a little further. I lurch backwards, and crack my head against the hard stone. His eyes gleam, fingernails skitter around my ankles, scratching desperately for my feet.

But he is too large. He cannot fit in. No matter how hard he struggles, those broad shoulders will not allow him in.

Eventually, the hands retract, and I hear the soft thud of landing. And then comes a low, cold laugh, drifting up to fill my little crack between the rubble and settle somewhere between my heart and my stomach.

‘I already killed two girls. Faeme was too easy. Scrappy little Merris put up a good fight. I’d like to have three. You’ll have to come out soon, little Annie. When you do, I’ll be waiting.’

I jam my fist in my mouth to stop from screaming.

***********************************

_Cannon blast. Jupiter pokes Mal’s body with his foot._

_‘Easy,’ he moans. ‘Too easy. When are we going to run into some real competition?’_

_Juno says nothing. She wipes her knives on the front of her tribute’_ _s uniform._

***********************************

Nightfall. There’s nothing here but black and the rustle of Kayn below, shifting while he dozes. But I cannot even move a muscle for sheer terror. My legs are damp where I pissed myself as I crouch, and my throat aches with thirst as I shake the very last drops from the canteen.

Once, the night is broken by cannon fire. When the fanfare sounds the projection shows Victory, Quiver, and Merris Locktar in succession. And then Mal Stonebridge’s face is emblazoned across the sky, the wide eyes of a little boy who has not yet hit puberty.

Eventually, Kayn will get bored of waiting. And then he will find other ways to force me out.

‘I love you,’ I try to whisper, but it comes out cracked and broken. I clear my throat. ‘I love you. Mum, Dad. Marcus, Finny.’ I squeeze my eyes shut because my throat is constricting once more. I don’t know to whom I’m talking. There could be a camera staring at my face, or I could be talking aimlessly into the dark. But I have to say it.

***********************************

_The girl crouches alone, alone on a million different screens, alone in every home and Citizen’s Square across Panem. Her breathing comes slow. ‘All of you. I don’t know if I’ll see you again.’ The voice is barely a whisper. Her face is cut and sore. ‘But I love you. I love you so much, and I’m sorry.’ She raises her head to stare at something the cameras can’t see. Her eyes are wide, lips trembling. She whispers a word, and it echoes across the nation._

_‘Finnick.’_

***********************************

Finnick stands up, and in one smooth movement dashes his glass against the wall.

 

***********************************

I fall asleep. I fall asleep, still in a crouch, and wake up with a start of adrenaline, having toppled into the wall. I wince at the new pain in my head, to add to the ache of my cramping muscles.

Through the entrance, shapes loom in the gloaming, rocks faintly visible in the grey light of dawn. I need to get out. Now, while he still sleeps, I have the faintest sliver of a chance. If I wait until the sun has risen, I will be dead.

Inch by inch, I crawl my way to the front of my makeshift bolt hole. Building debris scrapes softly, Kayn’s snores momentarily muffled as he shifts in his sleep. _This is it._ I poke my head out.

It is not Kayn below me. It’s Iberis Kincardane, lowering to a crouch, leaning over Kayn’s prone body. He holds a small pot, which he cracks open, allowing a fine mist to settle over Kayn’s mouth and nose. And then both hands shoot out and lock tight around Kayn’s neck.

Kayn’s eyes flick open, and he gasps. Iberis locks his knees tight against the side of Kayn’s body as he attempts to pull his arm free. Whatever was in the pot makes Kayn’s movements slower, weaker. Makes his eyes bulge. He makes a horrible spluttering noise.

 ‘It’ll be completely painless, I promise’ Iberis mutters, Kayn’s legs twitching feebly. ‘Please don’t struggle. It makes it harder. I’m sorry,’ he says through clenched teeth, 'I’m sorry.’

He keeps repeating that but it isn’t making any sense. The fire of survival burns in his eyes. This isn’t about feeling sorry, this is simply about what must be done.

‘God, would you spare us?’ A clear voice cuts through the air, and I shrink back into the brickwork. There’s a girl, crouched on the wall behind him. ‘Trained for years, and look at you _apologizing_.’ Her face twists into a sneer. ‘You’re pathetic.’

Iberis doesn’t have a chance to reply, because then Epiphany is on him, leaping down in one smooth movement, something like a sickle flashing in her fist. I press my back to the wall once more, hand over my mouth. I hear the sounds of a scuffle, and a male voice cries out. Cannon fire.

Another voice whimpers. Kayn. ‘Stop. We could be allies.’

‘Like I said. Pathetic,’ Epiphany sighs, and wipes her face with the back of her arm, smearing blood across her cheek. ‘And besides, both your legs are broken. You’re no use to anyone now.’

There’s a yelp. And then, once more, a rumble in the sky.

Epiphany rummages through their abandoned kit. Then she stands, perfectly still, looking around the room. Eyes glinting. I barely dare to breathe, tears leaking slowly down over my hands, both clamped so tightly over my mouth that my teeth ache.

After what seems like an hour, she lopes away. But the sun has been risen for another full hour, bodies long lifted free of the Arena, by the time I gain the courage to climb down.

***********************************

 _Day three._ Finnick drags himself away from the screen when he knows he can dally no longer – tears himself away from Annie, waiting for hours by fish traps, face burning in the sun. There is no-one else within two miles of her position, and he closes his eyes.

What happens out there is out of his hands. And he knows he has to do this.

He doesn’t have Darius drop him off, because that would be far too conspicuous. Instead he wanders through the streets alone, sunglasses on, wearing a dark blue jacket. There are some areas of the Capitol where people won’t look at you twice, even if you are Finnick Odair, because their Daddy has twice as much money and their neighbors are all just as famous anyway.

Finnick likes these parts of the city.

Victory Avenue is wide and paved with marble, two straight rows of maple trees running in smooth lines towards the white, domed courthouse at the far end. The streets aren’t so busy, and no holoscreens line this avenue to stream the Games to commuters. People are inside to watch, and Finnick prefers it this way.

For once, his mind can be blank.

The sky is clear and clean, clean as the pavement he walks on, cleaned every morning by avoxes. A swallow swipes momentarily through the blue above him, then is gone. It is almost unnaturally still. Finnick sits down in one of the delicate chairs of twisted metal, smells the fresh coffee and buns drifting from inside. There’s a chink of plates, a couple to one side laugh.

It’s so peaceful.

_Annie is fighting for her life this moment._

He cuts out the thought. It has been stopping him from sleeping. From eating, except for when Ophelia places food in his hands. From sleeping, except for the moments when he dozes with the screen still flickering in front of his eyes. It almost prevented him from coming today, although this could be his first real chance.

But Finnick has had many years to practice not thinking about things.

The chair he has chosen faces out onto the street and he scans the passers-by, looking for anyone in a coat. A coat that would mean something to him – it seems bizarre, ridiculous. Half of him trembles with excitement. After so many years this could be it, could finally be the answer –

And it could very well also be a trap.

‘Your coffee, sir,’ says the waitress who has appeared beside him. Finnick glances at her, nods his thanks.

There’s a man standing in front of him. An unremarkable man, by all accounts, medium height, slender build, receding hairline and thick rimmed glasses. The man is wearing a brown double breasted trench coat. Finnick’s coat. But he hasn’t seen that coat in years, he lost that coat one night after too many drinks, when he walked her home and gave the coat to –

‘Hello, Mr Odair,’ says the man. ‘Do you mind if I sit?’

‘Ophelia,’ Finnick breathes.

He gave the coat to Ophelia.

_She is part of the resistance._

***********************************

_‘I can help you,’_ _Matteo pants, ‘The kid you were chasing – Trellis – I saw where she went.’_

_Halcyon cocks his little head, almost comically, as he straddles this boy almost a foot taller than him. ‘I can find her myself. And kill her. I’m going to kill you.’_

_‘She stole your things, and I saw where she put them,’ says Matteo. ‘I swear.’_

_Halcyon considers. Then a cannon blast echoes._

_Indigo snorts. ‘Sounds like Cashmere already did your job, Matteo.’_

_Halcyon grins, genuinely delighted._

_‘No,’ says Matteo, ‘No. I know where the other girl is too, the girl from eleven –’_

_‘She’s been dead from the start,’ Halcyon laughs, ‘You are such a terrible liar. Say sorry.’ He slashes deep into Matteo’s leg, and the boy screams. ‘Say sorry.’ His voice is sing song._

_‘Just do it, Hal,’ says Clyde, ‘This is unnecessary.’_

_Halcyon’s eyes narrow and he slams home the dagger. Now Matteo breaths up bubbles of red, eyes wide as he stares at the hilt in his neck._

_Halcyon looks up slowly as Matteo stops twitching. There’s a roll of twine around his wrist, and slowly, he begins to unloop it. ‘You know, Clyde,’ he says. ‘I don’t think I like you very much.’_

***********************************

 ‘Ophelia?’ says the man. Finnick didn’t realize he’d spoken out loud. ‘Oh, yes. She prefers to work through associates, you see. Like me. Those of us with similar goals.’ He pushes his glasses back up on his nose and that’s when Finnick realises he knows him. He’s another Victor…. Something beginning with B…

‘Beetee,’ says the man, holding out a hand, ‘It’s good to, ah, meet you properly. If you see what I mean.’

Finnick does not take his hand. The man clasps, unclasps his fingers, then lets his hand drop to the table.

‘How long.’ He knows how his voice sounds. It’s the voice that makes people answer. ‘How long has Ophelia been part of this.’

Beetee stutters. ‘I – I really couldn’t say. I was made aware of her…a year ago, I suppose?’

‘I see.’ Finnick clenches his fists slowly on top of the table.

Ophelia knew he was looking. She has _always_ known he was looking. And through all his desperation, she’s been hiding from him in plain sight.

‘Ah… a mutual friend of ours,’ Beetee clears his throat, ‘Suggested to me that you might be searching for people with similar interests. You are right. You are not alone.’

In this moment, those words don’t mean anything to Finnick. ‘I’ve been alone for years,’ he says, his voice low, dangerous. _And Ophelia made sure it stayed that way._

Beetee spreads his hands, eyes flickering, nervous. ‘We had to be sure you were genuine. That you really were searching, that you weren’t just… sent by others. I understand why you’re angry.’

‘You understand,’ Finnick nods. White hot fury builds within his chest. ‘You _understand.’_

Beetee suddenly leans forward across the table, his voice beseeching. ‘The Capitol control every inch of us, Finnick,’ he whispers, ‘We had to be sure they didn’t have your mind as well.’

Finnick closes his eyes, fighting to control his rage. He could upend the table he sits on right now, leap over, stab the man in the neck with a dinner knife and watch him drop limp to the ground. And god, he wants to do it.

But Beetee is right.

_Focus._

_This is what you’ve been dreaming of for years. This could change Panem._

_This could save Annie._

His eyes snap open, his mind an iron blade. ‘And how do I know _you’re_ with the program, Mr Beetee?’

‘For the moment, you’re just going to have to trust me.’

‘I’m not prepared to do that.’

‘Finnick Odair. If I am not what I say I am, you are already dead. There could be a thousand cameras watching us right now.’

Perhaps in another life, Finnick would want to trust him. But this is the Capitol, where everyone is hollow when their backs are turned. And the wall of steel and distrust Finnick built around himself have long ago sank into his bones, to simply become part of who he is.

Finnick asks, ‘What do you want?’

‘There is a need for people like us.’

‘People like us,’ Finnick says. ‘Victors, you mean.’

‘Yes. And we are aware that you have… another quality which is of use to our people,’ Beetee continues. He looks at him over the tops of his glasses. ‘A certain access to inside information, if you will.’

‘I see. And what would you and your...’ he makes a circular motion with his right hand ‘Your little _group_ want with my information?’

‘For the moment… nothing.’ Beetee clears his throat. ‘In fact, I was specifically told to instruct you to stop being so… obvious. In your searching for answers. It may be putting us all in danger.’

‘I don’t know you, I don’t know who you work for, and your boss is already trying to order me around,’ Finnick gives him a horrible half smile. ‘Bad move.’

‘Look, Finnick,’ Beetee spreads his hands, ‘I don’t know how much I can tell you. I barely know anything myself. All I know is you may not relate this to another soul. Including Miss Mason. And I know that you need to be prepared.’

‘Prepared,’ says Finnick, ‘For what?’

Beetee puts down his glass of water, his hand betraying the slightest tremor. ‘For… _her…_ to get in touch.’

***********************************

The sun has almost set by the time Quiver’s fish hooks prove their worth. I cry tears of relief, of gaping, aching hunger as I pull the still flopping bodies from the water. I do not dare light a fire – and I do not have the patience to anyway. My belly is bloated on two days of redwort, and my fingers tremble as I bring the fish to my lips.

And so I sit, in a nook of an ancient, toppling colonnade, watching the sunset and forcing myself to take small bites so that I do not retch. To one side is Quiver’s pack, Fannia’s water canteen, a length of twine. These are all I have, but for the moment, with my sore limbs able to stretch out, soft scabs forming along the acid sores on my neck and palms, and a belly truly full for the first time since I entered the Arena, it is enough.

The sun dips beyond the horizon, and the sick, buzzing blue glow take its hold over the sea. I can make out the lighthouse in the distance. The sky is prickled with the sheen of countless stars, cut through by eerie lines betraying the mechanical reality of their creation. The streak of the milky way is false, but it is still beautiful.

If those stars match the real one beyond – if time even works that way in the Arena – then we are somewhere south. Far south.

A trumpet blast, then faces flash across the sky. 3. 6. Both of 12.

As I slowly sink into uneasy sleep, I wonder what has happened to Jordan.

 

***********************************

On the evening of the fifth day, Finnick doesn’t go home.

‘It’s been a while since you’ve called,’ he says, as the door of the penthouse slides shut behind him. Lush, open plan décor spreads out in front of him, lit low with orange floor lights. Through a wall of glass to the right, the blue-lit bulk of the presidential spire rising up from the tangle of lesser skyscrapers steals half the view of the night city.

‘Hoping I might have forgotten you?’ Tanaquila grins idly, kicking her crossed legs where she sits atop the edge of the central island.

‘Oh no, honey,’ Finnick smiles with sealed lips. ‘Never that.’

‘I’ve been busy,’ Tanaquila yawns, ‘Everyone’s dying to know what Triton has up his baggy, useless, sleeve for this Games. He had the evening off yesterday, and he _insisted_ on attending Venissa Ovichi’s stupid gala. It dragged on for absolutely hours.’

She tips her wine glass, liquid pouring into a sink. ‘This is disgusting. But I bought something for us tonight.’ She pushes a bottle of dark spirits towards him. ‘I know what you like.’

Finnick strolls forward, and pours himself out a substantial measure. He drains it.

‘Oh no,’ says Tanaquila. ‘Don’t hold back. It’s all yours.’

Finnick knows she is playing him for something. He also knows that if he drinks, this will be easier. Hell, if he is drunk, he can sometimes even enjoy it.

Music is playing, some new fashioned jazz. Tanaquila hops off the counter and puts her arms around Finnick’s shoulders.

‘You’ve barely spoken to me this week,’ she pouts. ‘You didn’t even send me flowers. I know you’re distracted. But I’m getting tired of allowing it.’ She taps a finger against his chest, and smiles. ‘When the Games are done I might go see the President’s aide. I wouldn’t want to have to tell him you’ve been a bad boy.’

Finnick drains his fourth glass, drops it on the floor, and knocks Tanaquila off her feet, dropping her into a low swoop. She gives a shrieking giggle. The floor swings around him, and he buries his face in her chest. When he brings her up again she pushes him back towards the wall, fingers tearing at his shirt buttons, kisses hard, forceful. Finnick stumbles against a low table, and then they are around the corner into her bedroom.

With a smile of satisfaction, Tanaquila tugs his shirt from his wrists, and steps back to pull off her own dress in one smooth movement. Heady from the drink, Finnick collapses onto the bedspread. Tanaquila has paused to remove her earrings in front of the mirror, and he picks up her datapad, lying screen unlocked by her bed. It is stupid, so stupid, but he can’t help himself. He is scrolling on the latest news feed, stomach swimming sickly – in case –

Tanaquila snatches the datapad from his hand and flings it across the room. Finnick watches impassively as it bounces against the wall with a crack.

‘Look at me.’ Tanaquila’s voice is ice cold, and her nails dig into his cheek like talons, forcing him towards her. Her eyes are dead, as far as he’s concerned. Flat black pupils like those of an animal. She climbs on top of him, black laced underwear, and there’s a kitchen knife in her hand.

‘How about,’ one hand unzips his pants, ‘We play Hunger Games. We both know you’re oh so good at it. But this time,’ she runs the icy tip of the knife across his jugular, ‘You play tribute. And I’ll play Victor.’

Finnick looks at her for a long time, and then he begins to laugh. ‘Oh, please do. Hurt me.’ His voice is mocking. ‘Do it. I’m sure if you try enough things you can come up with something I haven’t done already.’

‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ she snarls, and the blade nicks a slice into his collarbone. ‘You are nothing. Nothing but a pretty face with a dick, and once these god damned Games are over and Triton gets his life senatorship, I will squash you like a bug.’

They stare at each other, silent, breathing hard.

‘Sometimes,’ Finnick licks his lips, ‘I would even rather fuck Snow himself.’

Tanaquila’s slap leaves his face stinging. ‘You will be at my side every day from now on,’ she hisses. She kisses him brutally, violently, he tastes the blood from his lips. ‘Until I say you may leave, you may not leave. And until I am done with you, you will be here every night.’

He kisses back, because he wants to hurt her too, and they grapple as she grinds her crotch up against his. Te flips her body over on the bed, the nails of one of her hands grating on his back, him pinioning the knife in the other upon the pillow.

‘You can use me how you want,’ he says, chest heaving. ‘But I know your secret, Tanaquila.’  He bites down on her, and she gasps in pleasure. Lust, pain, loathing, it’s all the same now.

‘Oh, and I’m in such trouble,’ Tanaquila gives a breathless laugh, ‘It’s such a shame that nobody gives a shit about your stupid fucking secrets.’

He is crushing her wrists in his hands above her head now, and she drops the knife. ‘All that shit about Gamemakers and bribes? You think _that’s_ a secret?’ Finnick chuckles, low against her ear. He kisses up her neck, licks along her jaw line. Bites down again, on her earlobe. Hard. ‘Everyone in this stinking city is on bribes. I’ve fucked three people who had that as their secret and it was like they all expect a prize for breaking some giant fucking scandal. You think I get my secrets when I ask nicely? No, Tanaquila.’ His nails break the skin on her wrists. ‘That’s not how I get my secrets. And that. Is not your secret.’

Tanaquila is silent. When he looks down at her face, his heart pounding like a jackhammer, she lies beneath him, arms relaxed on the pillow on top of her loose spread hair. His hands on her wrists loosen, because the alcohol is hitting him hard now. She smiles like a cat, eyes languid. And then she reaches up to grasp his body, and pulls him down, thrusts him inside of her. Finnick exhales, eyelids flickering. There’s bile in his mouth and he swallows it down.

She arches her body into his. ‘Yes, you know my secret.’ She murmurs, lips catching his chin as Finnick takes shuddering breaths in time with their movement. ‘And oh god, how I was hoping you’d find out. Triton will kill me.’ She throws her neck back. ‘God. But I just know how much he’s going to _love_ it when I make you join in.’

Finnick barely hears her; he can lose his mind in alcohol, slick touch of skin and violent build of heat in his limbs. He slams her body hard down into the mattress, tearing a moan from her breathless lips. He wants to hear her hurting. She drags his head down to hers by the hair. ‘You know my secret,’ she hisses through clenched teeth into his ear, hips rolling with his, ‘But I know yours too. And tomorrow I’m going to tell the Gamemakers how Finnick Odair fucked his tribute.’

Finnick clutches for the bed below him, fingers digging into the mattress. ‘You do that,’ he forces out the words. ‘She was fun for a week.’

‘Oh, so you won’t mind then,’ she gasps, and then she twists her nails into his ribs. ‘When I tell Triton to make sure the Arena kills her.’

Afterwards, Finnick lies flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The patterns of the wall paper blur into a single damp, seething mass. The broiling in his gut does not subside.

Tanaquila shrugs on her night dress, shakes out her hair. ‘Tomorrow, you will take me out to the betting parties. Then, we will promenade on Freedom Walk.’ She turns to drop a kiss on his forehead. ‘No screens.’ She drags a thumb down across his bottom lip, and leans in close. ‘No distractions.’

***********************************

_‘There’s no fun in this,’ says Jupiter, rolling Jules’ body into the water. ‘I told you. I want someone interesting to fight with.’_

_‘_ _Don’t worry,’ says Juno. ‘In a couple of days all the boring ones will be dead. Then we’ll go for them.’_

***********************************

Day five. Everything is quiet. I stay by my fishhooks, every death I have witnessed running through my mind like a nightmare on loop. So many children like Jet. People who could have been my friends. There are only three Districts with both tributes still living. 2, 10, and 4.

Day six, I move islands. I comb half the new one, quietly, slowly, make sure I am alone. I set the fish hooks again, and once again I sit and wait. I don’t think of what happened of the cornucopia, Faeme screaming, Epiphany leaping down, except when my mind slips without warning.

_You next, Annie-can’t-kill._

Once again, it’s almost sundown by the time I catch.

_Keep moving, Annie Cresta. Hurry._

Mouth full of fish, I stuff my gear back into my pack and dive into the ocean. At the next islet, a half drowned hall with a cracked, lopsided portico, I will find somewhere to sleep. As I drag myself out onto the cracked paving slabs of the shore, my stomach twists at the sight of how close the sun is to passing the horizon. I push damp tendrils of hair back from my face and move away from the water, shivering.

And then, quite distinctly, someone calls my name.

 ‘Annie.’

It’s Clyde. He is strapped bodily to one of the columns, sharp twine cutting into his stomach, red running over his skin. His arms hang limp, wrists swollen and at an angle that isn’t right. The column leans forward, not quite vertical, and his legs dangle into the water.

But the sun is setting. And the tide is rising.

‘Help me,’ Clyde gasps, ‘Annie, please.’ His dark eyes are bloodshot, sunken.

I am torn in indecision. I glance at the sky. It is almost dusk, and any minute now, the water around him will start to boil.

‘Annie, I swear to god,’ he is desperate now, ‘If you free me I won’t harm you. I’ll protect you from the Careers.’

 _False promises, Annie,_ says Finnick’s voice in my head. And maybe his dark eyes lie, maybe even now he’s calculating. But I cannot let him die. Die in agony, like Fannia.

_Don’t do it, Annie. Get out of there._

I splash into the shallows beside him, run my hands round the back of the rock to find the knot. It is tight. I need a knife to cut through this.

‘In my back pocket,’ Clyde says, anticipating my question, and I shove my fingers down between his body and the rock, fingers twisting until they close around a hilt. It is a small cutting knife but it is all I have.

The sky is shot through with scarlet. My fingers scramble at the ties that hold Clyde to the rock. But the plastic twine is tight and sharp, cutting my fingers, and I can’t find where it starts or ends. The sun gilds the rocks at the other side of the pool gold, brighter and brighter in the final flares of day.

‘Hurry,’ his breath is ragged, ‘Hurry.’

The tide rises and begins to wash over his arms. A larger swell cuts over his face and he coughs, splutters. The golden light reflected on the far rock cuts out into shadow. I am still sawing, sawing.

Another wave washes over my hands and I gasp, because the salt burns, it _burns_ and suddenly the water around my ankles is heating, itching –

_Get out Annie GET OUT_

‘I’ll free you,’ I say desperately, ‘I’ll get you out of the water.’

‘There’s no point,’ he coughs. ‘If you don’t get out now, you’ll die too.’

‘No,’ My stomach flips. ‘Who did this?’

‘He did,’ Clyde swallows, ‘He’s too fast, Annie.’

‘Who –’ my chest heaves with panicked breaths, ‘I –’

‘Kill me, Annie,’ Clyde’s lips are pulled back in a manic grimace, ‘End it. Please.’

‘I –’ I stare at him, mind terribly, horribly blank. ‘I don’t –’

And then a huge wave washes forward, splattering spray across my face, and the agony decides it for me. I throw myself backwards, thrashing up the steep floor of the portico until my back is pressing against the far columns, shuddering and sobbing, up and out of the reach of the rising tide. Below me, Clyde howls.

‘I’m sorry,’ I gasp, ‘I’m so sorry.’

I turn to face him, I can see the whites of his eyes, staring and terrified and still clear in the fading light. The water around his legs rises, fizzing, fizzing harder, and he moans. Then a larger wave sloshes forward, smacking spray up against the columns, backwash rushing over Clyde’s body.

The flesh melts from his face. I heave up my stomach on to the gritty marble.

 _No, no no no._ I collapse forward, hands clamped over my ears to drown out the gurgling, spluttering cry.

The world is spinning and my mind is black. Bright lights of the departing plane sear my eyes, dragging its half-molten cargo and I’m going to scream too, I’m going to scream long and loud and then maybe I’ll throw myself into the water so it will end, to make it all end.

The portico has stopped flooding, water line lapping a foot from my curled in toes. The rushing has stopped, but it continues in my head and I’m not sure if I’m dreaming or floating or lying awake in the dark listening to the sound of it lapping, lapping against the stone.

It would be so easy, easy to roll down into the black. The water would close over my head as it always does, and I’d be surrounded by silence. And this time it would be the end.

 _Annie, snap out of it._ Finnick cuts through my tangled thoughts with a jolt. _You promised me._

I sit up, muscles stiff, hands red and the skin on my face rubbed raw. My hair is stiff with salt, curling out of Ambrosia’s braid. Someone – someone unbelievably sick – tied Clyde up to die. And sitting at the top corner of the portico, I am trapped. I cannot move until the tide recedes. If whoever did this to Clyde is still here somewhere, I am a sitting duck.

But if they were inside the hall, they would most likely have been drowned. I need to get to the roof.

I press down on my thighs to force myself to stand, adjust the rucksack on my back. For three minutes I stand, running my fingers over the columns, trying to judge the distance between the balustrade and the roof. The last light is fading quickly. There is no more time.

And then, I stand on the edge on the balustrade. Below me, the sea hisses, plankton twinkling soft blue. One foot wrong and it will be over. And then I’ll go just like Clyde did; eyeballs running into skull sockets as my cheeks slip and twist down my neck, runny muscle, fizzing bone.

I stretch as tall as I dare, and my hands dig into the cracks between flowery carvings heading the flutes of the columns. I tug, and they don’t budge. Then I run my hands up and down the center of the pillar, until I find what I was hoping for – a nick in the weathered stone. A foothold.

_Skin running in slimy rivulets along the side of his exposed jaw bone. Nose collapsing. Scream fading as the acid reaches his voice box –_

No.

_You’re going to burn, just like him, pathetic, weak, blood everywhere--_

Keep focused. _Don’t stop moving._ I wedge my right foot into the column, and push upwards.

***********************************

_‘My my, that was a gruesome death,’ Flickerman chuckles. ‘District 1’s little Career really is a resourceful boy. We didn’t really think that Alliance could contain him for long, did we Claudius?’_

_‘I’d say this is less about resourcefullness, and more about tactics,’ says Claudius, ‘He spent a good few minutes strapping poor Clyde to that column – more than he needed to.’ He jabs a finger into the desk. ‘But he knows who’s watching. A show of strength.’_

_‘A show of strength,’ says Flickerman sagely, ‘And a warning too. I wonder, will the other tributes take it seriously?’_

_‘Well, his audience of one didn’t know what to do with herself,’ says Claudius, ‘Bless her heart. Well if she’s lucky, she’ll get a second show before the Games are over!’_

***********************************

Ettie runs flat out, but Cashmere’s legs are longer. The camera closes in, and she pulls out her knife.

‘This is boring,’ whines Johanna, ‘I don’t give a shit about any of these tributes. The best ones have already been killed.’

‘Well, maybe they weren’t the best,’ Finnick mutters.

Johanna shoots him a poisonous glance. ‘Demera was fantastic, and you know it. She was just damn unlucky.’ She turns back to the screen. Cashmere is quick, business like, and wipes the blood spatter calmly from the corner of her mouth.

Finnick exhales slowly as the cannon fires in the Arena sky.

Johanna twists on the sofa. ‘What’s gotten into you? Tanaquila takes you out on the one day Annie’s stayed safe so far, and _now_ you’ve turned into a crotchety old bastard? You saw where she is. Alone on a random roof, out of the sightline of that tower, all nice and cozy.’

‘There’s a lot on my mind, Jo,’ Finnick says eventually.

‘Bullshit,’ says Johanna, lips pulled into a sneer. ‘There’s only one thing on your mind.’

Finnick doesn’t reply. Doesn’t argue back. The sneer dies on her lips, and she watches him silently. She hates it when he gets like this.

His mouth twists into a bitter smile, fingers tugging at the corner of a cushion. ‘You were right.’

She raises her eyebrows. ‘I always am. What about?’

Finnick looks her dead in the face. ‘I got too close.’

 

***********************************

_‘I don’t make alliances,’ says Cashmere flatly. A stave is slung across her back, golden hair loose, forming a halo behind her in the sunlight._

_‘Oh. That’s a shame,’ says Epiphany evenly. She cocks her head, looks Cashmere up and down. ‘Because I was going to make an exception for you.’_

_‘Really.’ Cashmere raises an eyebrow._

_‘I’ve been watching things from the lighthouse, and you’re pretty good.’ Epiphany takes a step forward. Spreads her hands. ‘We both know there’s no-one else in this godforsaken Arena worth teaming up with.’_

_Cashmere says nothing._

_Epiphany’s voice is low. ‘Cashmere. Let me lay it down for you.’ They are two feet apart, gazes locked. ‘You’re a girl who’s going places. So am I. There’s some boys round here we both need gone. You see what I’m saying?’_

_‘How many have you killed so far?’_

_‘Three.’_

_‘Well,’ Cashmere licks her bottom lip. ‘I’ve been dying to throttle that little shit Halcyon for the past week.’_

_Epiphany’s mouth twists into a smile. ‘Exactly.’_

***********************************

 ‘It’s not fair,’ Indigo’s voice is thick with tears. ‘I wanted to win. I deserve to win. It’s not fair.’

‘Shut up,’ says Epiphany. ‘Just… shut up.’

They are suspended in a pool, arms lashed to the rockface behind them. In front, semi-circular rows of steps lead down in to the water. Epiphany silently twists, wrists bleeding against the twine in her efforts to get free. Indigo cries in great, heaving sobs.

A tall, lithe figure appears on the top of the steps opposite. Pauses for a moment.

‘You bitch!’ Epiphany screams, ‘The ambush –  you fucking disappeared –’

‘I told you,’ Cashmere says in a bored tone. ‘I don’t make alliances.’ She looks at her nails. ‘Shame though. You were kind of cute.’

‘I’m _cute_?’ Epiphany twists against her bonds, ‘Then maybe you could get me _out_ of this fucking mess, girl –’

But Cashmere’s head has already turned away, her attention caught by something out of Epiphany’s sight. And then she vanishes between the buildings.

‘This is sick.’ Chest heaving, Epiphany leans her head back against the rock and closes her eyes. ‘She’s…she’s…fuck. But this is sick. He’s sick.’ Beside her, Indigo whimpers. She turns and snarls. ‘And will you shut the _fuck_ up already?’

Eventually, Indigo’s sobbing ceases.

The sun begins to pass below the horizon, and the water glistens thickly. And then it begins to boil.

Muffled screaming.

***********************************

High above, the trumpets blast. The day’s dead flash across the darkening sky. Two pairs of brown eyes watch in silence, crouched behind a low wall and just out of reach of the high tide.

‘Only five left to get now.’

Jupiter frowns. ‘Four. Halcyon, Cashmere, 7’s boy, that girl from 4. Apart from us.’

Juno sits ramrod straight, hands clasped on her knees. ‘Exactly.’ Her voice is strained. ‘Us.’

Jupiter nods once. Then he dives to the side, just as the knife slices past where his body had been. And then they are both up, duel wield daggers glinting in the light, not back to back this time, but circling each other.

‘Is this it?’ Jupiter asks. ‘Now, like this?’

‘This is the way it was always going to end,’ snarls Juno. ‘Why have we been kidding ourselves?’

Jupiter lunges forward with a bitter cry, and then the knives are moving in a flowing, murderous dance. Juno leaps backward onto the wall, and a moment later Jupiter joins her. Stars glimmer into life in the sky between them. Every stab is met with the screech of answering metal. Every kick is anticipated before it lands. This is an even match. Too even. A double image.

And then the stone beneath Jupiter’s back foot slides from position. He falters, regains his balance, but in that split second a blade found its mark.

‘No,’ Juno gasps.

Jupiter looks down at the hilt in his chest. He coughs, and dark blood trickles from the corner of his lips.

This time, Juno screams. ‘No!’

Jupiter raises a hand. It hangs for a moment by his sister’s cheek, and then he falls from the wall, falls just as Juno jumps to catch him.

They lie there a long time, the girl’s shoulders shaking silently as she cradles her brother. It is while before the cannon fires, but it is much longer before Juno moves again. When she stands, she is no longer shaking. Her hands reach behind her neck and unsheathe the long zip of her tributes uniform. She steps out of it, leaving it a crumpled pile on the slabs.

The waves suck gently at the shore as she pads down into the glowing water. There is no sound as her pale form disappears.

Waves continue to stroke the rocks.

Cannon fire.

***********************************

I did not sleep this night on the portico. But though I shook in the darkness, eyes wide with terror, no-one came. As the cool grey light of dawn washes over the horizon, the tide begins its steady retreat, the eerie speckles of neon blue slowly fade within the water. I close my eyes, and breathe in.

Salt, in my lungs, on the back of my tongue. Gold behind my eyelids, as the first beam of day breaks over the sea’s distant curve. Warmth on my cheeks. A lift in my hair.

I let every thought go, and I am once again on the shores of home. When I open my eyes, I will see the first fishing boats pushing out to sea, white sailcloth snapping in the breeze. Reds, yellows, bright paint against the ache of the endless sky. I will step down from the quay and feel sand between my toes.

I open my eyes to sunlight, and the gutted, pale stone tower of the nearest island clutching at the sky. The lighthouse. The spiral staircase within is revealed by a broken wall. Below me, the sea tugs and slaps at loose, ragged loops of twine around a column. My burns have gone numb. But beneath them is a strange, dull ache which burrows deep inside of me, stiffening my legs. In one hand, I still clutch Clyde’s knife. I slide it into my boot.

I can’t run. Things hurt too much _._

I sit in a nook on the towered islet, where the ground is lined in redwort. I chew for hours, lost in the sick tendrils of thought that have attached themselves to the back of my mind. I re-braid my hair, loop the last of Quiver’s twine over and over one shin, slide the knife through the thickened material at the top of my boot. Days of sun have left me dizzy. What’s the point of setting traps anymore? Last night, I was woken by cannon fire. Or was it longer? I wait. I am waiting for them to come and get me.

Redwort in my mouth. Cashmere. Halcyon. Jordan. Names spin through my mind. One more will go, eventually. I swallow down the thick, rubbery strands. Me next. One will have to go.

***********************************

_‘It’s been a day and a half since we lost the last tributes.’_ _Caesar’s gaze is steady. ‘The question is now, what are the final four waiting for?’_

_'I don’t know, Caesar.’ Claudius scrolls on his datapad. ‘It’s all quiet out there, too quiet. And if there’s one person who dislikes quietness even more than I do… it’s our head Gamemaker, Triton Berenzen.’_

_‘_ _Indeed,’ says Caesar, ‘And Claudius, you know I don’t like to speculate, but I have a feeling we’re in for something titanic.’_

***********************************

As I am searching for shelter, the skies open up.

But this is not rain. This is a wall of water barreling down from the sky, smacking the back of my head and barely leaving room to breathe. Coughing, I duck under a low archway, streams of droplets hitting the ground all around with the sound of rushing, running water, a torrent from the heavens.

I am wet to the ankles. What moments ago were puddles have now overran into streams, and then, above my head, there’s the sure, sharp crack of stone breaking. I dive forward just as the archway collapses under a surge of water.

Blinded by the rain and keeping my face downturned so I can breathe, I clamber, hands and feet, onto higher ground. My body stings where the rain pummels it, but I need to be out of the shadow of the buildings, above anything weak that could crumble,  higher than the rising water line –

I gasp as I lose my grip and slice my palm on rock, then I splutter on the rain I’ve just breathed in. Water pours all around me, running through my fingers, through my hair, in rivers over stone. The rain comes so thick I can barely breathe, and always, the level of the sea beneath me is rising.

I reach the top of the hill. The water below broils over the rest of the island. So this is how it ends. It seems almost cheap. I will stay stranded on my pinnacle of rock until the waves engulf my body and lift me up and burn me as the sun sets.

But then I see it through the curtains of water – a tall white shape. A building. A _tower_. I stumble towards it, tripping, sliding, wading chest deep through a dip in the rocks. But then I have made it. Not just a tower, it’s the lighthouse.

Gasping, spluttering, I drag my body inside the stone doorway, at last free of the pounding rain. But the sloshing water I wade through within is already high as my waist, and I begin to climb the spiral staircase. Water flows down over the steps towards me, pouring in through a cavity in the stairwell. I reach this point, and press my body to the central column of the stairs to avoid the worst of the rain spearing in through the window. Behind the thundering sounds of rain is a low, distant roar. Through the whole in the wall, the whole horizon is a seething mass of grey. Grey that isn’t the sky.

Oh my god.

_run run run RUN RUN RUN_

Panic. I scramble once more for the steps, slipping in the puddles at my feet. Hands, feet, slapping against the stone steps, chest heaving, I don’t know if it’s even high enough and ever the roar grows louder –

I smash through the doorway onto the roof, and torrents of rain smack me in the face, try to choke me. The sky is dark but even darker than the sky – curving its way all around the horizon, surging towards the center – is a wall of water. Thirty meters above the sea level, maybe ten higher than the lighthouse. I gasp down what little air I can, clasp the edge of the roof with both hands and then the broiling surge is on me, clapping agony against my head and ripping my hands from the roof, crushing ocean salt down my nose and beating the air out my lungs and lifting my body up along on its unstoppable course.

Somewhere beyond me, as the waves meet in the center of the Arena, an echoing boom through the water sets my ears ringing. I am tossed through the currents until I no longer know which way is down.

And then, quite suddenly, the water is still.

I drift, gently spinning, the last thin trickle of air bubbling from my nostrils. My hair floating languid about me, like smoke in the heavy summer air. Slowly, light opens up the darkness ahead, showing the quavering distant shapes of building blocks and a tower, smashed through at the middle and pale roof sinking down, down…

_Upwards, Annie, swim up –_

My lungs begin to scream and I twist my face desperately towards the light. Slow, calm strokes. Do not panic. I know this element. The sea is my home, and I can hold my breath for minutes. _For seven minutes._

Slowly, slowly, the islands below me fade into the deep. Silence pounds against the sides of my skull. My legs give one last, desperate kick, and then my face bursts above the surface. I heave in air, sweet, sweet air, sunlight glancing into my eyes. No more rain, and I can breathe.

And then there is nothing to do but swim.

The waves wash me in whatever direction they will – I no longer have any sense of my position in the Arena. The swell rises and drops in huge rolls that threaten to drag me under. Loose hair sticks to my face in strands. And then someone bursts through the swell, a blonde head bobbing on the waves. For a moment she is hidden behind the glittering slate-grey rise, and then she appears again, closer this time. Cashmere.

My throat constricts with fear, but she does not notice me. Instead, she twists in the water, pushing at something with her hands –

And then, a howl, and a gagging, splashing boy breaks through the surface beside her. There’s panic in his eyes, the wild panic of a lost child. 'I can’t,’ Halcyon gasps, 'I can’t swim.’ His hands clutch Cashmere’s shoulders, desperate legs thrashing. Her grapple to find his neck. 'You’ll drown us both,’ she shrieks. Halcyon keens a high, pitiful cry. A wave tows them under.

They don’t resurface.

 _Keep treading._ Don’t think. Just keep treading. The burning in my thighs is good. It’s good. It means I’m still moving, although my kicks are stiff and feeble, my breath high and quick. I give my head a sharp flick to rid my eyes of hair.

 _Boom._ The cannon calls. But only once. As I roll into a trough, through the drops splashing around my face the dark shadow of a plane descends from the sky, then a wave crest smacks over my head, a rush of bubbles as I burst through –

Cashmere again. And this time she sees me. I duck underwater and swim madly, swim as far as I can, all my limbs burning, weeping salt tears into the salt sea, throat clicking on the salted air. When I surface again she is several troughs away. Maybe she has given up. I’m not going to risk it. I swim further, each finger trembling.

The soft sigh of the waves continues, and the sun passes its zenith. There is no respite for my stinging cheeks and dazzled eyes. I tread water. The sough of waves around me lulls me into fantasies, and I see the canteen pouring fresh water for my parched throat, my teeth tearing into the flesh of the fish I caught just the other day.

Slowly, the sun lowers down in the sky. I turn to the east because the light gives me a headache. But still I tread water.

Cannon fire. And then a fanfare.

 _Congratulations,_ booms a voice from the sky, _to the final t –_

A wave hits –

_– ever in your favor!_

I come up again, spluttering, hacking and snorting at the burning tack of salt. Someone has died again. I cannot think. I cannot stop. I must keep treading water. Everything burns, even as my limbs grow heavy and cold. But I must tread water.

_Don’t give in, Annie. You are alive._

Finnick’s face comes to me. Perhaps my body is still moving in the water, but my mind is with him. Scenes flicker, jumbled through my mind, the last fortnight repeating over and over again. But this time, everywhere, I am followed by his eyes. 

_I step up onto the stage, my mind numb with the knowledge of my own death. A crowd of eyes stare blankly back, the line of Victors. Mags. And a pulse within me as I catch the gaze of Finnick Odair. Our bodies move together in the night breeze._

A wave smacks me in the face and I gag. My thighs are on fire. The acid has damaged them deeply. Soon they will cramp and my shaking limbs will seize.

The sun hovers above the horizon, streaks of gold and copper and scarlet.

_Don’t stop. Don’t stop._

_Don’t think about sundown._

Water sloshes into the edges of my mouth now, and I crane my aching neck, trying to stay tethered to the air. Tears leak around the corners of my stinging eyes.

I saved a boy from drowning, once. But even I cannot swim forever.

 _I’m in the water once again, but it’s a warmer, kinder, distant sea. A bronze haired boy shouts out from the shore as I dive down into its depths, because my baby brother is caught beneath the water._ _Because I can hold my breath and stay in the water. I can hold my breath and stay in the water longer than anyone._

_My fingers scramble with knots, billowing nets trailing past my face, as I fight to keep the color in Marcus’ cheeks, the last bright bubble of air escaping from his lips. Panels of sunlight flicker through the lattices of stinging rope and twine cocooning us, dragging him down. And then he is free, and we rush up, up, up and burst –_

And then my feet grate against an edge of something solid.

The water level is dropping. Dark shapes begin breach the surface of the water. And then there is a ragged roof edge, and I am dragging my body onto a solid surface.

I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m sobbing, hiccupping, tile and granite rubbing my face and hands raw. I cling to the roof with my very soul, because I had never before come so close to fearing the sea. I am alive.

_I am alive._

And that is when the hand grabs my ankle.

***********************************

_‘My goodness,’ says Caesar Flickerman, ‘What a spectacular finale this is turning out to be. And all we can say here is – well, let’s just say I don’t think there’s many of us out there who ever imagined we’d end up here.’_

_‘Losing our beautiful amazon to cramp in the waves has broken a lot of hearts, and lost a lot of people their money,’ says Claudius, ‘But what an incredible moment for Districts 4 and 7 this must be.’_

***********************************

When fingers brush my leg, I do not kick out. I turn around.

This is my first mistake.

Jordan. Dark hair plastered to his face, a deep cut down one cheek, and a burning in his deep brown eyes. My heart leaps into my mouth.

‘Help me,’ he gasps, ‘The water’s dropped too far; I can’t pull myself over.’

‘Jordan,’ I sob, ‘You’re alive.’

I clamber back around towards him, proffer my hand, and he scrambles his way over the edge. Not for a moment do I stop think. To question. Second mistake.

We lie, exhausted, on the roof, sucking in great breaths of the blessed air. And now, only now, does my brain begin to tick through what has just happened, does reality begin to sink back in, logic cutting through the adrenaline. And with it pure, unadulterated fear, cutting through the storm of emotions battering the insides of my skull.

‘Annie,’ says Jordan, quite casually, pushing himself up, ‘I got so lost in the waves. How many cannons did you hear?’

_No. No no no no no no –_

Every nerve of my body stings with sick, low terror. As quickly as I dare, I stand. But then my eyes meet his, and in them he finds all he needed to know.

Pain blossoms in the back of my skull as Jordan slams me against the roof, his hands around my neck and his eyes burning. I kick upwards and he gasps as my knee connects with his crotch, and I am rolling sideways, dragging my body, scrambling –

Heat, blinding agony through my left shoulder. The sun lances through the bloody slice of glass in his hand as it comes down once more. I catch it centimeters from my chest, but I am too weak, and then I smell blood and the sharp pain of a shallow gash. Jordan snarls, his face a nightmare.

I always knew it would come down to this. _Annie-can’t-kill. Weak._ My fingers slip. _Surrender. I’ve been dead for days._ Sunlight burns, and the glass slips down. _Mom, where are you?_ So easy just to stop. _NO NO_ _I WON’T GO I WANT TO LIVE I WANT TO LIVE –_

***********************************

_'Look away, Finnick,' Johanna whispers, 'You know how this goes. Look away, Finnick. Please.'_

***********************************

The glass sinks into my chest. My mouth opens, I wish to speak, but nothing comes out.

Jordan pulls himself off me, collapses on his knees at my side and the fury is gone from his face. Now he just looks exhausted, although it’s hard to tell with the sun so bright _I’m going to slowly bleed to death and that’s how it should be_ there’s hot, wet at the back of my throat and it’s hard to breathe. _No no no._ I roll to the side and curl my legs upwards beside me, my fingers scrabble uselessly behind me at my thighs, catch in the twine still wrapped around my shin, grab hold of my boot –

– and then Clyde’s knife slides free.

_Finnick’s eyes are beautiful, and so afraid. ‘When I die,’ I tell him softly, ‘It will be on my own terms.’_

Something does rip from my mouth now, a wet cry. _I will not let them win._ I wrench my arm around towards myself, blindly, with the last of my resolve, slashing towards my own chest.

_My own terms._

But Jordan is leaning over me again, alerted by my cry to screw the glass in deeper, but why is he there, why did he choose that moment, because my arm is already flying through its arc and my cry becomes a scream, I am screaming as my knife slides through his stomach and his guts spill out over my chest, I am screaming as he topples to the ground, and the cannon blasts somewhere beyond the sky.

_Annie-can’t-kill._

For a moment, I see everything with startling clarity. Dark blood smeared on the blade in my hand.

I kneel in front of the incoming plane, and over the stench of offal and sound of trumpets and a deep voice booming I am screaming, screaming, screaming myself hollow.

This is the moment that I lose my mind.

***********************************

_‘Well,’ says Caesar._

_‘Well, indeed,’ says Claudius._

_Caesar Flickerman’s smile opens up, wider and wider. ‘Annie Cresta entered this Arena six days ago as a little girl.’ He does not blink. ‘But she has emerged from these Games most utterly a woman.’_

_‘We’ll see you next for the post-Games wrap up,’ continues Claudius, ‘But that has been all from us here at the Capitol commentary box. Thank you for watching the 70 th Hunger Games. Good night, and may the odds be ever in your favor.’ _

***********************************

The world is blank when I wake up. Waves skitter through my mind. Where am I?

My eyes are open but I can’t see. There’s nothing there.

I become aware of the low humming around me only as the sound cuts out for a moment and then restarts. I can see something after all. I am lying in a bed, blankets oh so soft against my skin. I’m looking at a wall. The wall is grey.

The wall is grey and as I stare at it, unmoving, shadows touch across its surface. Swirls and dragons and a kite, flying. Or maybe that was a wave.

_Bubbling strands of skin, ripping, tearing_

I suck in air because now I remember and oh god –

‘Annie,’ says a voice from behind me, and then ‘Monitor! She’s awake!’ A shadow falls across my face and there’s a figure leaning over me, it’s Finnick, Finnick and my whole chest constricts because he is real.

_Blood in the water blood running through my fingers_

 ‘Annie,’ a hand hovers, touches my shoulder. It is like a bolt of fire.

_They’re coming to get you to kill you they’re HERE hands on your neck hands that kill he will do this Annie he did this Annie_

_you killed him Annie_

I launch myself upwards, against the pressure of his gasp and something rips from my lips, a howl, a shriek, and I knock him backwards and away, the sheet tangled between us. Sharp pain down my chest as I move. Pounding of footsteps and then two figures in white coats are in the room. Escape. My knee cracks on the floor as I fall and I scramble to the corner, as far as I can. I scream. My throat is ragged. They’re coming for me, white coats, masks so I can’t see their faces.

_murderer_

‘Get away from her. I said _get away –’_

I press my hands against my ears so I can’t hear them, curled close against the cold grey floor, against the wall cold grey walls rising up around me, walls or floor? All are identical, I’m falling into gravity. My whole body wracked by shaking, and now there is blood trickling down towards me, seeping up from the walls, the floor, in thickening streams. I blink and there is no blood, but I can still smell it, hot and rusted.

‘Annie?’ A face. He is standing against the wall beside me. Or maybe lying against the floor beside me. His hand stretches forward, ever so slowly. ‘Annie, it’s okay. It’s me. It’s Finnick. Look at me, Annie.’

‘No,’ I gasp, ‘Don’t touch me.’

If I look into his eyes I will know which way up I am. And then the sharp slide of a needle pierces my leg and his eyes swim away into a haze of grey, and the grey fades to black.

***********************************

It’s a melting smear of grey, the hours I spend in the infirmary. Now and then cut through by a bright light, and always the twisted, bloody threads of nightmare. Always, the low hiss of voices at the back of my mind.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Once, I dream that someone is holding my hand, but when I wake up it is dark and I am screaming again. Then the needles.

Three days later (I know it is three, because one of the monitors tells me so), they don’t drug me to sleep any more. This is good, (says the monitor), because it means I will be lucid for my interview. It is bad, because the stitches where they operated on my lung burn a line of fire through my chest. It is bad because my thoughts returned and now all I can see is Clyde screaming, Fannia screaming, Jordan’s face and my arm slicing outward with a knife, again, again, again.

Rain runs in rivulets down the window beside my bed. There is someone I know here to dress me – Ophelia. I blow up my cheeks, pretend I am a fish, gazing out of my fishbowl at the sodden, quivering branches of trees beyond. She brushes the limp tendrils of my hair, pulls a white shift over my head. Rain beats against the window pane. Perhaps the rain will drown me this time.

‘Finnick would be here if he could,’ Ophelia murmurs, ‘He would like you to know that.’

My nails cut into the palms of my hands, fists screwed tight shut.

Ophelia holds my hand. Down the corridor, in the car, all the way to the edge of the stage. I blink in the blinding light. There’s a dull roar as they say my name. And – Victor.

Annie Cresta, Victor of the 70th Hunger Games.

_Clyde Laiken, of the brain and eyeballs being melted by acid. Jordan Guthrie, of the internal organs falling out of his body. Fannia Elestren, of the bubbled alive in –_

‘Annie, my dear Annie,’ Caesar Flickerman guides me into a chair, ‘My goodness, you are a real deer in the headlights. Where can I possibly begin?’ He almost sounds like he is apologizing. ‘Firstly, tell us how you feel.’

I bite my lip. If I unfocus my eyes just a little bit, Caesar’s face slides into Jordan’s face. Jordan’s eyes are sad. ‘Tell us how you feel,’ he says.

I reach out. Maybe I can touch him. ‘I’m sorry, Jordan,’ I whisper.

It’s not Jordan, it’s Caesar. How strange of me. Caesar clears his throat. ‘Oh dear. I think we have our answer. Now Annie, we know you. We’ve grown to _know_ you over these past two weeks. We know how … sweet you are. And we wouldn’t have expected anything less from you than this. The way you feel is noble, my dear.’ He grasps my hand. ‘Noble.’

 _Noble._ My face twists. _Murderer._ ‘Don’t touch me.’ _You murdered him, Annie._ Caesar frowns, and I yank my hand back. ‘I said, don’t _touch me!’_ I scream the last part. Oh, no.

There’s a silence for a while. In the meantime, I realize that there is water all down my face. Salt water, like the sea.

‘Now – and don’t take this the wrong way, my dear – but can I just say that your last minute grasp for Victory was – well, it was stunning. What was it like, when the rain came down and the water started rising?’

 _It was like the earth was drowning. I want to die. I’_ _m scared, Mom._ I breathe in a huge sob, because I can see them all there before me now, my limbs paralyzed, unable to stop it, I can’t stop that one by one they’re going to die. Die screaming. _I am so scared._

‘Annie,’ Caesar reminds me that he’s there, ‘Annie – what was it that made you change your mind? That pushed you over the edge, if you will? What made you decide that you were going to live? That you were going to kill Jordan?’

I press a hand to my mouth, chest surging in a ragged panic that sends a ripple of agony through my injured lung. I am the last one, and I am a murderer. I press my other hand over my eyes, to stop the light.  ‘No,’ I mumble, ‘It was an accident. An accident. I tried – I wanted to end it. To stop it. To kill myself.’

Gasps of shock from the audience. Caesar raises his eyebrows. ‘Really. Kill _yourself._ Why?’

‘Because no-one should have died because of me!’ I shriek the words and Caesar jumps. ‘Because so many people are already dead – every year again and again - ’

‘Annie my dear, you’re getting hysterical, may I pass you…’ 

‘Why aren’t you listening to me?’ I smack the box of tissues from him hand. ‘They’re dead. They’re all dead. So many children, dead for no reason, for _no reason_ except because this society is sick – this government is sick – _evil – ’_ Arms grasp my shoulders, I’m being lifted from my chair even as I scream at Caesar, ‘And the Victors, we’re dead too, they allow us to live because don’t you get it _, we’re dead too –’_

They’re pulling me off the stage, but that’s not right, because I haven’t finished answering. I’m yelling _I haven’t finished –_

***********************************

That night, I am killing him all over again. I stab and stab and stab. The blood seeps up and washes over me but still he will not die and my arm will not stop cutting.

***********************************

‘Annie.’ A voice in the doorway. ‘You’re awake.’

Finnick. God of the sea, bearing a trident. Sun-kissed skin, bronze hair. But no trident today. His steps into the room are cautious, his eyes questioning. ‘Can I?’

I say nothing.

He moves to stand by my bed. I don’t look at him anymore. He stands there for a long while, while I keep watching the swaying branches, somehow more real because they are viewed through a pane of glass.

‘I killed him,’ I say. ‘I killed him, Finnick. I’m like you now.’

His hand strokes a lock of hair back from my forehead.

‘Annie,’ he says, and his voice breaks. ‘You were never like me.’

***********************************

6 days, 12 speeches. On day six, we will arrive home. It isn’t my home, it’s the other Annie’s home. The Annie from before.

There are five people on my Victory tour. Me. A monitor. Aenon. Finnick, and Finnick’s girlfriend. She appears at the train station, as a surprise. She wants to come along because she’s never seen the lesser Districts and it is boring in the Capitol when the Games are over.

The monitor means that I am whisked away, because I need _extensive rest_ , there are _residual psychoanalyses to conduct_ , and _mentors, and any other members of the Tribute team, are not permitted to worsen my delicate mental state by talking to me_. Tanaquila means that when I lie at night in my compartment of the train, I know she is lying somewhere with him just beyond the hum of the carriage, maybe forcing him, wrapping herself around him so that you can never escape.

When I gave my speech in the Capitol, the crowd glittered, a cheer like dogs baying for blood. 12 is quiet, faces flat, men with skin grimed from the mines. In 11 a woman screams, then a peacekeeper, and the voice quickly muffled. My voice slurs as I read lies about glory and sacrifice and remembrance. I remember the part of me that is outraged. But I don’t have the right to think I’m better any more.

When I am not being paraded past district officials and accepting bouquets, Aenon mumbles instructions on etiquette and I try my utmost not to cry, to scream, to run away in front of town mayors. Then we will file back onto the train. Then, Tanaquila will dig her nails into Finnick’s arm, and they will disappear into their private carriage.  Most of the time, when we’re between districts, I stare out the window and try not to fall asleep. When I can no longer stave off exhaustion I use two sleeping pills. At least then the nightmares are muted, the smell of burning flesh somehow less cutting, the abject terror somehow impersonal. When I wake, I am groggy. But groggy makes the thoughts trickle in slowly, like treacle. And that’s better.

The other day when I woke up, there was a whole minute before I remembered. So last night, I took three pills. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, because we’re in 9 and I am dizzy, my mind fogged. I glance to my right, and there is my mentor. Tanaquila’s arm is looped through his, around and around and around.

Aenon steps back from the microphone. This is the part where I’m supposed to say something. There’s a thousand faces, and they’re all swimming into one giant, melting puddle of eyes. They watched me kill him, I guess. They saw the water close over our heads. Someone is pinching my arm. It’s Aenon, and his face is pinched too. Why is he gesturing? I’m holding cards. They have writing on, but I can’t read them, because everything is spinning. What did I have to say again?

‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ Something about the Games. But I can’t remember what.

I let out a chuckle, and as it reverberates back into my ears over a hundred speakers, I chuckle again. What’s the point of trying to read this when all the letters are looping into a spiralling spiralling loop of ink. This makes me laugh, and everything tilts sideways, and so I let the notecards fall, drifting down to land on the puddle of faces. And then someone puts their arms on mine, and they’re pulling. ‘No,’ I say, and then louder, so that it squeals through the speakers, _‘No.’_ Because I’ve remembered what I have to say now, and they have to listen. My nightmare. I _remember._

‘When the waves came in, there were bodies in the water and I vomited because it smelled like death. I’ve never seen a dead child before.’ The hands are grabbing me – grabbing at the microphone – why are they grabbing? ‘No – have to say – and then it was like – it was like I was drowning in blood. Blood and death. Capitol punishment. I see them all being murdered every night.’

‘She’s insane,’ I hear Tanaquila behind me. ‘The stupid girl is utterly doolally.’

‘I watch it happen every night. Don’t you see?’ It comes out as a scream. ‘Don’t you see? It’s never going to – ’ _Get that girl away,_ someone is yelling. They’ve got me now and I’m going, kicking my legs in the air and gulping for breath because they won’t take me back, I won’t let them, they can’t put me back there – the faces are rising up and swimming and my shriek is broadcast back to me over the vast speakers, and then there’s the thin stab of a needle in my neck

After 10, they remember to sedate me before ceremonies.

In the Career districts, faces stare back at me like stone. I won by accident, by fraud. Their heroes died so that a pathetic girl from the fishing district could snatch the Victor’s crown. Of course Annie won, Finnick Odair’s fucking favorite. The little slut.

And then we are in 4. I remember this stage from last time, feel the crushing horror of the choosing ceremony all over again. Mayor Brockhurst grins on the side. I don’t want to find familiar faces in the crowd and I stare dead ahead, where a gull perches on a roof across the square, calling. But then I stumble down the steps with my monitor clutching my arm, and blink because the light through the overcast sky is pale and bright. My mother’s sick, white face appears behind a row of peacekeepers, and it is over.

‘Mom,’ I say, ‘Dad.’

They pause, frozen, uncertainty on their faces. And then they’re pushing their way towards me, Marcus barrelling through people’s legs, dragging Finny by the hand, and the peacekeepers are letting them through. I collapse into my mother’s arms. Dad is weeping. I wrap one arm around Marcus, crush Finn against my chest, and he gives a great sob. A circle of space grows around us, a circle of respect; the peacekeepers do not need to hold anyone back.

People do not stand near Finnick and Tanaquila, either, but that is not quite from respect. That is awe. Fear. Tanaquila yawns, and looks at her nails.

I stare over my parents’ shoulders as they hold me. My heart beats a harsh rhythm against my ribcage, but my eyes are dry. I am utterly numb.

It is a while later when Aenon clears his throat. ‘I’m afraid it is time for Annie to be taken to the new Victor’s quarter. If you wish, I can secure permission for you to visit her freely over the course of the next four days, before the normal weekly visiting schedule reapplies…’

My monitor nods. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to step away - ‘

My father straightens. ‘Annie isn’t going with you.’ He raises his voice. The crowd murmurs. ‘My daughter is coming home.’

‘I’m afraid that’s impossible.’ Aenon tugs at his tie.

‘Mr Cresta, I understand that this is an emotional moment,’ Mayor Brockhurst spreads his hands. ‘But Annie is a Victor now, and Victors reside in the Victor’s quarter. In fact, tonight I’m throwing a celebration for the glory of our –’

‘Annie is sick.’ Finnick’s voice cuts through the air like a whipcrack. Marcus jumps, and grabs at my waist. Finnick starts forward, shaking off Tanaquila’s arm. ‘What she _needs_ is a familiar environment and her family, until she is sufficiently recovered enough to move.’

‘This has never…’ Finnick cocks his head slightly, and the Mayor pauses in his bluster.

Aenon clears his throat. ‘I suppose… allowances could be made. If Annie’s monitor were able to conduct final check-ups from an alternative location.’

Finnick fixes the monitor with his stare. ‘That… is technically feasible,’ she says.

‘Mayor Brockhurst?’ Aenon asks.

The Mayor can’t hold Finnick’s gaze. I think it’s because Finnick looks like he’s planning to kill him.

And that’s it.

The peacekeepers create a path through the crowd. As my parents lead me gently away, I glance once back over my shoulder. Finnick’s brows tug into a crease of anxiety as he watches me go. Behind him, Tanaquila gives an awful smile, and then she turns away.

I do not look back again.

 

***********************************

Just up the path behind our house is a little hillock, where the sea peeks out over the rooftops and you can sink your feet into clover. My father puts a chair here, and a blanket. This is where I spend most of the days next week, watching tiny white wave tops glitter into view, and silently vanish again. Perhaps if I let myself, I could blow away with them, in a thousand tiny fragments of foam. The days pass by too fast, and then too slowly. I know at the back of my head, that for much of the time, I am not quite lucid.

My mother does not work, because she is staying with me. She stands at the kitchen window where she can see me. She smooths the blanket around my knees and brings me inside whenever the sun vanishes behind the clouds. Pushes an embroidery hoop into my hands, little flowers which I started sewing before I left. Tucks me into a warm bed, strokes my forehead, and helps me drink a bitter tea for anxiety. When I wake myself at night from screaming, she lights a small kerosene lamp, and my father holds my hand until I sink back into darkness.

On the third evening, Finnick comes to visit. My bed is banked up with cushions in the kitchen corner near the stove; dad dragged it to the coziest part of the house. Finny sits under the table and gurgles with a small wooden car, and Marcus frowns over his first piece of homework since school restarted. My father opens the door, one hand on the frame, I can just see Finnick behind in the open doorway. His deep green eyes are wide, jaw set.

‘Finnick Odair.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you properly, Mr and Mrs Cresta,’ he says. ‘May I see Annie?

My father’s voice is tight. ‘You’ve done enough.’

Finnick’s face is stricken. ‘Please.’

‘Dad,’ I say, and Finnick’s eyes lock on to mine. ‘It’s okay.’

There’s a pause. Then my father moves slowly back from the door. Finnick enters, nods at my mother. ‘Mrs Cresta. Marcus.’

She places her stack of dishes down on the table, and fixes him with an unwavering gaze. Marcus stares.

Finnick comes to stand by my by bedside, the eyes of my whole family on him. ‘Sit down,’ says my mother shortly, pushing a chair towards him. He sits, back to the wall at my head, so he is facing the rest of my family.

‘Hello,’ I say.

‘Annie.’ His fists are clenched in his lap, jaw tense.

I reach out and touch his arm. ‘Thank you for coming.’

There is a pause.

Marcus appears in front him, eyes like saucers. ‘Mr Finnick Odair, sir.’ He says. ‘I watched you win the Games. I was too little to see it for real, but I watched the records.’

Finnick looks at him, eyes flickering to my mother. He swallows.

‘Mr Odair, I know you helped Annie win. My Dad said if Annie’s got the faintest chance in hell, Finnick’s the one who could do it.’

My father, standing in the corner, scowls.

Marcus holds out his hand, arm stiff and straight. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Finnick stares at his hand for a moment, then takes it. Marcus shakes it twice, then turns around and goes to sit back at the table, still staring.

My mother clears her throat. ‘Donack, come over here and help me wash these dishes.’ My father mutters something, and turns away to join her at the sink, where she begins to wash a pot with more than the usual clatter. ‘Marcus, why don’t you take Finny outside to play for a moment? As her mentor, I am sure Mr Odair has some important things to say to Annie.’

‘But I want to…’ begins Marcus. Mom raises her eyebrows, and he scoots.

 ‘How are you feeling?’ Finnick asks quietly.

Yesterday, I hyperventilated half the morning, and screamed half the night, so anything’s an improvement, I suppose. Today, can look at what happened almost objectively. I was under a state of intense pressure and constant fear for most of a month. I saw people die. I underwent severe and prolonged trauma. I committed –

 ‘Where’s Tanaquila?’ I ask.

‘Back in the Capitol. For now.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘The nightmares. How often do they come when you’re waking?’

‘On and off.’

‘Days…or hours?’

I don’t reply.

Finnick passes a hand over his face. ‘When you stepped into that capsule…’ He swallows. ‘I would have given anything for you to come back. But I didn’t think of… this.’

I pick at the blanket. ‘That I would go crazy, you mean?’

Finnick frowns. ‘Post-traumatic stress, nervous breakdowns… they’re all normal, reasonable reactions for Victors. Annie, you saw my interview, you know how I was –’

‘Most of them,’ I interrupt, ‘Don’t. Not like I have.’

Finnick narrows his eyes.

‘Most of us didn’t win like you,’ he says eventually. His voice is  ‘We won because we are ruthless. Cold. Because if we were afraid to kill – and god, I was, Annie , I was so afraid at first – we put that aside.’ He swallows. ‘It takes a certain sort of person to be able to kill like that. Murder like that. To make that choice and grow stronger. A lot of people call it… glorious. Sometimes, I thought it was too. Annie,’ he reaches out for a moment, as though to touch my hand, ‘You are – not that.’

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. ‘If the Games were fair – if anything in this fucked up world was fair – you should never have been chosen. Never you. You’re breaking because of it. But you’re still more whole than any Victor I’ve ever met.’

I’ve heard this word before, dropped from Johanna’s lips with a sneer. But when Finnick says it, it isn’t an insult.

‘We both know,’ I say, and the tears start to come now, ‘That isn’t quite true anymore.’

I cross my arms across my chest so he cannot see the trembling. I do not ask him for comfort. He doesn’t reach out again.

‘I thought I could make you like me,’ Finnick says quietly, ‘And take that part of you away. You proved me wrong. And you proved how _wrong_ I was to even try.’ He passes a hand over his face. ‘But seeing you like this – I can’t –’

‘Mr Odair,’ my mother stands at my side. ‘It’s getting late. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

Finnick inclines his head, and stands.

He stops at the doorway, and turns. ‘If you would allow it,’ he says, ‘I’d like to visit more often. When I can. To see how Annie is doing.’

‘Absolutely not,’ says my father.

My mother turns to me. ‘Annie?’

‘I would like that,’ I say softly.

‘Then you may,’ she says brusquely. ‘But not more than twice a week. Not when she is feeling out of sorts. And if Annie is ever tired or stressed by your visits, you will not step through this door again.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ The corner of Finnick’s mouth twitches.

***********************************

Foam wefts the distant surface of the sea. My fingers are busy looping pieces of twine around driftwood. Small spiral shells as necklaces, twigs for arms, an old handkerchief becoming a dress. Gradually, a new doll grows in my hands. I wanted a knife to chip the body into a better shape, but my mother has placed them all somewhere I don’t know. I hum softly as I work, sea air stinging the inside of my nose.

My mother hikes up the path through the tufts of limonium, Finn holding on to her skirt. She stops beside me and turns to face the ocean, squinting in the bright light of the afternoon.

‘Annie?’ Finn’s voice is small, brown eyes peering over the side of my chair. ‘What is it?

I open my hand. ‘It’s for you.’

Finny’s mouth opens into a small round _O_. ‘What’s her name?’ he whispers.

‘I’m not sure,’ I say, ‘But she had a sister named Shelleysticks. Maybe you can think of one?’

Finn screws up his face. Then, ‘Mollysticks,’ he says firmly. Slowly he picks Mollysticks up from my hand.

My mother smiles down at me. Finn laughs at his new doll. And I am suddenly filled with an emptiness that’s hungry, that hurts the sides of my skull.

‘Do you want to hear a story about Mollysticks?’ I say.

‘I can do story,’ says Finn. ‘Once upon a time…’

I pluck the doll from his fingers, make her dance along the edge of the chair. ‘Once upon a time there was a girl called Molly. She loved her Mommy and Daddy and they lived in a house by the sea.’ Something dark swells in the back of my mind. ‘But then one day the bad people came for Molly. Molly didn’t want to go. But they made her. They made her see bad things. Terrible things. People screaming and dying and melting. It made her scream and cry and scream, but no-one came to save her. And when her friend tried to kill her she took his knife and she stabbed him through his chest and killed him _,’_ I slam Mollysticks against the chair as I speak, my voice louder, frenzied, ‘Stabbed him again and again –’

 ‘Annie, _stop!’_ Mom’s hands grasp my wrists. I stare at her, confused. Slowly, I open my palm. Mollysticks is broken, her little limbs snapped.

Finny’s eyes brim with fear as he looks at me. And in that moment, my heart finally, utterly breaks.

***********************************

I step out alone tonight, breeze teasing my night gown, goosepimples down my legs. It’s a short walk to the sea front.

The ocean is wild, and she is mine. She will embrace me and swallow me whole. I will be a droplet racing on the current, a shadow churning through the endless blue. I’ll melt away and become nothing at all. And then the voices will finally stop.

My arms are outstretched as I wade out into the surf, teeth aching as I grin into the cold night. The hem of my dress swills around my legs, dragging heavy in the water. My feet sink deep in the soft, soft, sand. The darkness in my mind wants me to go back, because it wants to torment me. To remind me that I’m nothing, that I deserve nothing.

But it can’t stop me from doing this.

The sea howls for me, and I am coming.

The sea is still tonight, and out across the ocean distant hills cast long, low shadows. Another shore. Another land. Or perhaps it is just the curve of the bay. The cold caresses my skin, between my thighs and dancing around my fingertips as they trail in the water. My breath hitches, because I am afraid.

I go deeper.

The edge of the horizon washes from violet to ink. A star, then another. My nipples tighten in the chill of freezing water, and the sea slaps against my shoulders. Was that a rock? An urchin, perhaps, but I barely notice the sting. The swell of waves welcomes me in.

_Further, Annie._

I have never felt more aware of every atom in my body. I am rushing out, all around me. I am high and low, and I am the sea. As the water trickles to my lips, salted and burni, I exhale. My feet lose the ground and then I float, water escaping my lips, softly, softly, sinking.

I float for minutes, hours, days, watching the last bubble trail from my lips. Holding my breath is what saved me, after all. But eventually my throat begins to tighten. Part of me tries to kick my legs, to push from the floor, get back to the surface, but I know it’s a trick. I open my mouth. Water rushes through my nose and throat, swells my lungs, and I panic, choke –

It’s too late. Everything is dark. I don’t know which way is up. I’m lost in the waves, and my head feels heavy. And as the finality overwhelms me, calmness grows. There is nothing to see. There is nothing to feel. And that is bliss.

I close my eyes.

***********************************

 _My lungs are on fire._ This is my first thought, and then I am retching up salt water bile, the cold of the night wind bruising my face. ‘Annie!’ it’s my father shouting, leaning over me, hands clasped in a fist over my chest and his eyes wild. ‘She’s awake!’ My head swims, pain cuts through my ribs, my lungs. Sand. It rubs, gritty, into every pore. I lie on the beach, where he has dragged me free of the ocean –

‘Put me back,’ I try to say. My father pulls me up into his arms, like he used to when he’d put me to bed as a child. Figures run through the dark towards us. Dad struggles his way up the beach, my head nodding into his shoulder.  People shove forward, neighbors with blankets, Mom sobbing as she strokes my hair. The din of voices splits my skull. ‘Why did you take me out?’ My voice cracks from the salt and the heartbreak and the pain. ‘Why?’

‘Shh, Annie,’ says my Dad, ‘You’re alright. You’re alright.’

 ‘Put me back,’ I whisper. ‘Please. Put me back.’

***********************************

The next evening, I am wrapped up by the stove again, bandages about my aching ribs. Mom did not let me out of her sight for the entire day. Over the past eight hours, I have pulled every single thread of my flower embroidery, voices clattering off the insides of my skull. Whisps of color lie on my bosom, the torn remains of pansies and daisies. There’s blood smeared on the handkerchief. My blood, and my index finger aches where someone has – I have – skewered it deep with the needle.

There is a knock at the door. It is Finnick, loose cotton shirt open at the collar, his face tight.

‘Mr Odair,’ says my mother stiffly, standing from the table and dusting flour off her apron.

‘Mr and Mrs Cresta,’ Finnick says. His eyes fall on me ‘Annie. I have some news.’

He takes a deep breath. ‘Aenon spoke to me this morning. The District 4 tributes manager,’ he clarifies to my parents, ‘The peacekeepers will be coming later tonight to take Annie back to the Victor’s quarter.’ His eyes ask for understanding. ‘I’m sorry. I wanted to give you some warning.’

Mom is instantly at my side, clutching my hand.

‘Annie is not yet well,’ she says through clenched teeth, ‘She cannot leave us.’

‘I understand, ma’m,’ says Finnick slowly, ‘But you won’t have a choice. They won’t take no for an answer.’

My Dad holds a hand up to stop Finnick’s protest. ‘Mr Odair. We’ve heard enough. You may tell the peacekeepers that if they lay a finger on Annie they will have to go through us both.’

‘I’m sorry to be forward, sir,’ says Finnick, ‘But you can’t afford to be looking after her whilst you try to continue to manage your business, your other children –’

‘You’re right, we can’t afford it.’ Mom’s voice is hard. ‘But she is our _daughter,_ and you will not tell me how to run my family. We will damn well manage.’

‘Last night,’ my father’s voice cracks with exhaustion and he looks Finnick dead in the eyes, ‘Annie tried to drown herself. I dragged her from the sea with my own bare hands.’

Finnick’s face is white. I turn my face to the wall as slow, sick shame rises up. Of course he was going to find out. But I didn’t think it would be like this.

My father continues. ‘The next time my daughter leaves this house, it will be with me, and it will be to visit the doctor. If you think that I will let you, or anyone, drag my daughter off to the Victor’s village and lock her up in a great rich mansion, in her current mental state, then – ’

A stony silence.

‘Mr and Mrs Cresta,’ Finnick’s voice is low, coaxing; I know this voice. He spreads his hands. ‘I have an offer to make.’

‘Mr Odair –’

‘Please,’ he holds my Mom’s gaze, ‘Call me Finnick.’

‘ _Finnick_ Odair.’ My mother’s voice is cold. ‘Your Capitol charms won’t work here. Talk plainly, or get out of my house.’

Finnick swallows. He looks at her for a long time. ‘I apologize,’ he says, ‘Sometimes, it’s hard to – to separate the two.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘My idea is this. Annie does not have to be alone. Mags could take care of her.’

Another pause. Finnick continues. ‘I’m in the Capitol much of the time, but Mags is always around. She could come check on Annie every day – or even stay over. I will be there when I can.’

‘Mags Cohen?’ Mom’s voice is incredulous.

‘Yes.’ Finnick swallows. ‘After I won, she… looked after me. She has always looked after me.’

I wonder what happened to his parents, whether they still live here in the town, somewhere. If perhaps I know them. If he ever sees them. If he would even want to.

‘Finnick.’ My mother’s voice is soft and firm. ‘You have saved my daughter’s life, in a way, and for that I will always be grateful. But I’ve seen what you are like – to young women. Young men. Not just the ones you’ve killed. The ones you – date. My first priority is my daughter. You will understand if I don’t think it would be appropriate.’

‘Forgive me, Mrs Cresta,’ Finnick interrupts, ‘But I’ve done what I’ve had to to survive. My _dates_ are not ones I have the pleasure of being able to choose for myself.’ He gives a tight lipped smile.

‘Mom,’ my voice, not much more than a whisper, enters the conversation. ‘If the peacekeepers come to take me up there, you can’t try and stop them. And I know...’ My eyes are wet. I cannot un-see the fear in Finny’s eyes, the disbelief of my father. ‘Being here is a burden on you. You can’t keep it up and make ends meet. It’s hurting Marcus and Finn, seeing me like this.’

‘Then we will all move to the Victor’s village together,’ Mom says firmly. ‘Or I will go, and Donack can stay down by the quay –’

‘That doesn’t solve the problem,’ I say. ‘I won’t make you split up, Mom. I won’t. The boys need you both. And my Victor’s bounty won’t pay for a doctor _and_ feed us all.’ I take a breath. ‘I’m an adult now. I trust Finnick. And I want to go.’

There is a pause. Mom squeezes my hand yet tighter.

 ‘How old are you?’ my father says to Finnick.

Finnick straightens up a little. ‘Next month, I will be twenty.’

Dad sighs. ‘We should let her go.’

I blink.

My mother’s voice is incredulous. ‘Donack…’

Dad’s face is pained. ‘They’re going to take her to the Victor’s village either way. Neither of us can afford to go with her. At least this way, she’ll have someone there to call the doctor whenever she needs, and we can visit her as often as possible. Every day, even.’

‘And so we just—let her leave? Go with this man we barely know while she’s so unwell?’ My mother shakes her head.

‘I expect him to be a man of his word,’ my father says seriously, gaze holding Finnick’s. Then his voice softens. ‘I remember being nineteen, not so long ago as all that. I know the look on his face when I see it.’

Mom closes her eyes, and brushes once at her nose. ‘I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.’

‘Mom,’ I say, ‘I know how much you’ve been struggling. Don’t feel guilty. Please.’

She looks down at me, her eyes tired. ‘Annie….If you can see the doctor every day…and if this is what you want...’

I swallow. What I want is for this entire nightmare to have never even begun. My eyes well with tears. ‘It’s what I want.’

She pulls me into a hug. For a while there’s no sound except her breathing, my face in her chest.

Finnick clears his throat. ‘There… is something else.’ I look up, and his face is pale. ‘I’m sorry to raise it, but… the President likes to take new Victors to the Capitol. Especially the attractive ones.’ My stomach sinks. ‘To sell them to the highest bidder.’

‘What are you saying?’ Mom’s voice breaks. ‘Annie is a Victor. She has special rights, the state guarantees it.’

‘It didn’t protect me,’ interrupts Finnick, furious. ‘It doesn’t protect me. And I was a fucking _child.’_

‘Enough,’ my father’s voice cuts through, his face pale. ‘That’s enough.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Finnick, and runs a hand through his hair. ‘I’m just – concerned.’

‘As are we all,’ dad growls. Finnick nods.

‘What can we do?’ says Mom. ‘How do we keep Annie safe?’

Finnick bites his lip.  ‘If they continue to believe that Annie is …’ he swallows, ‘Mentally unwell…then I think – I hope – they will stay away.’

I almost laugh. ‘So I should just be like this always, then,’ I say. ‘Fucked up.’

‘Annie,’ Dad says sharply.

‘I killed someone,’ I throw back, ‘If god’s up there, bad words aren’t going to make where I’m headed any worse.’

Mom strokes my face, tears on her cheeks. ‘If god’s up there, then he’s already forgiven you.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Annie will move to the village. We’ll pack her bags now, and she can go in the morning.’

‘I’ll come back in the morning to meet you.’ There’s a moment when it looks like Finnick’s about to move forward to shake my Dad’s hand, but then thinks better of it. At the doorway, he turns back. ‘I appreciate that you don’t know me,’ he says. ‘And I understand if you don’t trust me.’ His eyes find mine, his gaze fierce. ‘But I swear, I would die before I let anyone hurt Annie.’

‘We appreciate the sentiment,’ Dad says, ‘But promises like that are hard to keep.’

Finnick ducks his head. ‘Goodnight, Annie.’

 

***********************************

And so, the next morning, here we stand before the tall, wrought iron gates of the Victor’s quarter. I hold a carpet bag of clothes in one hand, and my mother’s hand in the other. A guard recognizes us, slowly, the elegant fretwork creaks open. In front of us stands a wide, tree-lined avenue. Set well back from the road are vast, three story mansions. ‘The Victor’s houses,’ says Aenon, but they’re too big to possibly be called houses.

Finnick leads us down the street, under oaks dripping with spanish moss. We walk past empty plots with gardens untended, overgrown with hollyhocks and vigorous bees. White slats, gabled roofs, pale green shutters. It is almost utterly silent. It is also, strangely beautiful.

There are enough houses here for District 4 to win the Games for a hundred years to come.

A man working over a flower bed with a trowel straightens up as we pass, and fixes me with a dark eyed stare.

‘Conway,’ Finnick says.

‘Odair,’ he replies, ‘Miss Cresta.’ He grins with too many teeth, and I force my lips into a polite smile. ‘Delighted to see you again. Can’t say I expected to.’

Finnick gives him a curt nod. ‘Please excuse us.’

‘Shona and I would love to have you over for dinner sometime, Annie,’ Conway calls after us. He gives a bark of laughter. ‘You can tell us all about it!’

I squeeze Mom’s hand harder. A village of only Victors, and I can barely cope with one.

We turn a corner, down an identical street, and then Finnick turns up a path, walking backwards. ‘Welcome,’ he says, ‘Home sweet home.’

To all practical ends the house is identical to the others we have passed. But unlike the others, it is lived in. The shutters are flung wide. The bronze knocker shines on a recently repainted door. Flower boxes thick with marigolds hang below the window frames.

‘It’s… beautiful.’ I say.

‘Yeah. Well.’ Finnick ducks his head. ‘The houses next door are empty, so they can assign one to you if you like. Or – you can go anywhere else, of course.’ He points across the road. ‘That’s Mags’ house, but she’s lived with me since I got here.’

‘What am I going to do with a whole house?’ I say. ‘They’re all enormous. Once I’d finished cleaning everything I’d have to start from the top all over again.’ Mom and I share a small smile.

Finnick pushes open the door. We step through an airy corridor, past a staircase on the left, and into a living room. The high walls are painted white, and bay windows gaze out over banks of flowerbeds in the back garden, day lilies in their last summer bloom. I walk forward to the glass. Beyond the garden, the blue back of the sea is just visible, peeking over the trees and rooftops of the town below.

‘The view is why I chose this one,’ says Finnick. ‘It isn’t the warmest room, but it is my favorite.’

On the mantelpiece, an old gilt clock ticks softly. My parents stare around at the rich furnishings, doing their best to hide their amazement.

A door creaks open, and the wizened old face of Mags Cohen peers into the room.

‘Mr and Mrs Cresta, this is Mags.’ Finnick bounds forward to take her by the hand, leading her in. ‘And of course you’ve already met Annie.’

She walks forward and squeezes my parents’ shoulders, her eyes beaming. Then she draws me into a hug. Pulling back she turns to us all, pats her stomach and makes a gesture at her lips, cocking her head in question.

‘Oh,’ I say. I guess Mags doesn’t talk.

‘We’d love to eat, thank you,’ says Finnick. His gaze is tender. I wonder why his mother never came to live here.

We follow Mags back towards the front of the house.

At lunch, the six of us sit around an oak table in the kitchen, which has windows facing out over the front lawn. We eat thick slices of crusty bread, salad and creamy bacon quiche, still piping hot. In this warm kitchen, people I love around me, I can eat. Aenon pokes at a piece of lettuce. I feel Finnick watching me, but I focus on my food.

‘Thank you, Mags,’ Dad says, ‘This is delicious.’

Mags raises her eyebrows and points at Finnick. Dad turns to him in surprise. ‘You can cook?’ he says, through a mouthful of quiche.

‘Yes sir.’ Finnick meets my Dad’s eyes briefly before returning to studiously butter a slice of bread. I smile.

‘So how long have you two shared a home?’ Mom looks between Mags and Finnick. ‘Can I…’

‘Don’t worry, Mags signs to me and I translate,’ says Finnick, ‘She moved in… pretty much straight after I arrived. Whenever I was allowed back from the Capitol she was already here.’ He reaches out and touches her hand. ‘I’m not sure I would have made it without her.’ There’s a pause, and returns to buttering another slice. ‘For one thing, I had no idea how to cook back then.’ He gives my parents a stellar Finnick smile. ‘Burnt the quiche every time.’

Mom and Dad glance at each other, and Dad clears his throat. ‘Mr Ballantine. Would it be possible for Annie to live here… with Finnick?’

My breath hitches. Finnick stares.

Aenon frowns. ‘She has already been assigned a house. But there’s no reason that Annie can’t live in here if she chooses… unless I am instructed otherwise.’

‘An excellent idea,’ says Mom brusquely. ‘If Finnick and Mags would allow it. It wouldn’t be right to leave a senior lady to care for this place alone when my girl could be here to help her. ’

‘And,’ says Dad seriously, ‘If Mags could keep Annie company, and call us if – anything happens… it would be a weight off our minds.’

Mags nods seriously, and then beams.

‘I would like that,’ I say shyly. ‘If that’s okay with you, Finnick.’

Finnick stares between me and my parents, and his face breaks into a bright, gorgeous grin. ‘I would be honored. Mags would too.’ Our eyes meet, and my cheeks warm. He knows what I tried to do two days ago. How can he still look at me?

Still, relief unfurls within me. The thought of being entirely alone in one of these vast houses, in this ghost village, had left me dull with dread. Finnick trusts Mags, and so I trust her too.

After lunch has been cleared away, and Aenon rushes off to an appointment, Finnick leads us upstairs. ‘I actually cleaned up a room – just in case – anyway, I think you’ll like it. I mean I hope you will. I mean… you can choose any other room…’ He swings himself around the last banister and comes to a door on the very top floor of the house.

‘It’s not very big,’ he says as he pushes it open, ‘But it’s cosier than the master bedrooms, and there’s the view out the back…’ He trails off as we enter.

The room may be small in this mansion, but it is as large as our kitchen at home. To one side is a wood framed bed with a lavender counterpane, and on the other, a vanity table and a closet. In between, the roof tilts down either side of a gable window with a deep window seat, banked up by cushions. It faces out over the garden and to the sparkle of ocean in the distance. A lazy summer breeze fills the room.

I walk forward, run my fingers over the knitted bedspread, the stack of paper books on a little table beside the door.

‘I thought those might be ones you’d like,’ Finnick folds and unfolds his arms, ‘There’s more books downstairs – I don’t know, I like the old kind with pages.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, staring out at the distant line of blue. I mean it. ‘Thank you, Finnick.’

Finnick ducks out to join Mags downstairs. Mom insists that I sit in the window seat as she arranges my little bag of things, my four dresses hanging in one side of the wardrobe, the smart red shoes I got for my sixteenth birthday below. Dad sits beside me, and holds my hand as I watch the gently swaying plants of the garden below.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Mom sits on my other side.

‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ she says fiercely. ‘Nothing.’

‘We love you,’ says Dad. ‘We want you to be well. We want you to be – to be happy. We can’t really imagine what you’ve gone through. I know you don’t want to talk about it,’ Mom shoots him a warning glance, ‘But we were with you every single minute, Annie. You were so brave. And you didn’t do anything – _anything –_ to be ashamed of. You did what anyone would have done.’

‘I told you,’ my voice cracks, ‘I didn’t want to. It was an accident.’

Dad sighs. ‘If it weren’t for that accident, we would have lost you.’

The dark place in the back of my mind beckons, and the nauseating panic that I have avoided so far today creeps over me. _Because_ of that accident they have lost me. The trembling begins again.

***********************************

‘It will take time,’ says the psychiatrist slowly. I sit on a sofa in Finnick’s front room, my parents either side. This man questioned me for most of two hours and it has wrung me utterly dry. The horror gripped me so hard as he spoke, as I cried, that for several minutes I blacked out. When I came to I was curled in a corner. There was a smashed vase where I had thrown it at his head, and also, I had been sick. After all of that, I can’t feel anything anymore. My eyes track over the pale flower pattern of the wall paper, zoning in and out of his words.

‘It appears that for Annie post-traumatic stress is manifesting largely in the form of physical and mental flashbacks, panic attacks, depressive thoughts, and the like. In addition, some suicidal ideation. All very typical.’

There’s a beetle walking up towards the ceiling behind the doctor.

‘Some doctors offer therapy, but I personally recommend neurosurgical and neuro-replacement treatment. They’re new techniques, recently developed for mental disorders in the Capitol, and there have been some wonderful success stories.’

 ‘Neuro-replacement?’ Dad is saying. ‘Even with the Victor’s bounty… if that’s the cost of your services…’

How does the beetle stay hanging on when he’s upside down?

‘Surely time and love – _talking_ about these things – or medication,’ Mom leans forward, ‘We have a neighbor who took pills she got from another doctor and she says they helped .’

‘I wouldn’t be so hasty to risk your daughter’s wellbeing further,’ the psychiatrist raises an eyebrow. ‘Medication is so unpredictable outside of the Capitol. There are many people who never fully recover. Who are never themselves again. Best to replace the broken and start over, don’t you think?’

My mother stays over that night, and we share the bed. When I wake up screaming she holds me, and brushes back sweaty hair from my forehead. When she leaves soon after daybreak, I stand at the garden gate and watch the corner at the end of the street where she disappeared. A bird warbles above me in the morning light.

Maybe what the doctor said would be good for me. Replace my whole mind. Maybe the new Annie wouldn’t even remember.

‘Annie,’ says Finnick quietly, from the doorstep. ‘You’ve been out here for a while. Would you like any breakfast?’

I turn and walk past him back inside. His eyes follow me, anxious. ‘No thank you,’ I say lightly, and head back upstairs, my hand trailing along the banister.

‘I’m down here. If you need anything,’ Finnick says from the landing. ‘Anything at all.’

I carry on up the second flight.

I spend the morning in the window seat, watching Mags pottering in the garden, sun warm on my face.

There’s a knock, and Mags smiles round the door.

‘Come in,’ I say shyly. In her hand she holds a vase of red stella lilies, which she sets on a dresser.

‘They’re gorgeous,’ I say, ‘You have a wonderful garden.’

Mags smiles. I falter, unsure of the best way to communicate. ‘Offering for me to come share this house with you and Finnick…I can’t thank you enough. You’ve both been so good to me.’ I duck my head, tears coming to my eyes. Why even bother to help me now?

Mags steps forward and places her hand against the side of my face. Her skin has aged like ripples of sand upon the sea shore, but something deep within her eyes is still youthful, utterly free of worry or judgement. I lean into her hand and blink back tears. When I open my eyes she raises her eyebrows and taps her stomach.

I don’t know if I am hungry, but I can’t say no to Mags.

The warm, comforting smell of cooking spices greets us as we enter the kitchen. Finnick stirs a pot on the stove top.

‘I asked your mom what your favorite was,’ he says, answering an unspoken question. ‘I know it’s not exactly summer food but I figured, with how hard you’re probably finding it to eat right now… Anything I can do to make it easier. ’

My cheeks warm. He has cooked for me – again – and I turned down breakfast from my hosts. If Mom was still here she would be mortified. Finnick has gone out of his way far too much already. I clamp my hands in my lap as I sit so that the others can’t notice them trembling.

We eat the meal in silence. To my relief, Finnick doesn’t try to talk. If I focus very hard on the sounds of cutlery clinking, on the kitchen curtain gently lifting in the midday breeze, the taste of the stew as I swallow it, my mind wanders back to my childhood. To a light place where thoughts come to me softly, and the own edges of my mind wait to rise up and swallow me whole.

Afterwards, Finnick beckons me out into the garden. He takes me on a little tour, pointing out Mags’ herb garden, the corner she let run wild with budleia because it brings in the butterflies, the beds where she tried to teach him how to grow vegetables. He adds that he mainly ended up killing them off, which when he was fifteen he thought was ironic and hilarious.

We sit down on a swing seat which faces down to the ocean. We don’t touch. A gull wheels through the distant sky, mewing mournfully.

‘Triton Berenzen stepped down last night,’ Finnick says eventually. ‘They’re trying to make it seem like he chose to retire, but President Snow apparently ah… didn’t like some of his directorial choices in the Arena. Not enough _excitement_ at the cornucopia.’ He uses air quotes. ‘Losing a tribute before Games even began. The _unorthodox_ ending.’

I look at Finnick, frowning.

‘Triton Berenzen,’ he says. ‘Triton has fallen out of favor in the Capitol. Which means so has his immediate family.’ His lips curve into a bitter smile. ‘Tanaquila won’t be making any more demands of me.’

 ‘She’s gone,’ I say simply, and my heart spools open in my chest. ‘You’re free.’

 ‘For the moment.’ He tilts his head back, closes his eyes. ‘I’m free for the moment.’

Do I laugh with relief? Or do I cry knowing that this is only respite, not manumission? I simply meet his gaze, and put into it all the empathy I have. But I have to look away, because it’s too much, and I can already feel myself drowning in those eyes.

‘Annie,’ Finnick says after several minutes. ‘You know you can stay here as long as you want, right? I’m going to be here as long as I possibly can. And if you ever want to move out, just say the word and I can help take your things over to your house. Whichever house you want.’

The breeze ruffles his hair, turning the ends bright gold. He twists a blade of grass between his tanned fingers.

‘Whatever you want,’ he continues, ‘Whatever you need me to be. Cook more food, talk about our fucking feelings, the works. Screw that doctor, I have a shit ton of money for medication if you want it. If you want me to fuck off back to the Capitol I can do that.’ He shakes his head, ‘If you just want me to shut up, I can probably do that to.’ 

It takes me a while to realize he needs a response, and another to drag up the words from the haze inside of me. ‘You don’t have to shut up,’ I say quietly.

He spins plucks another piece of grass, bites his lower lip. ‘When I got back from the Arena I couldn’t shut up for months. I just talked about nothing. Everything. The other tributes. How I killed them. A lot of it was gibberish. I ranted and raved and Mags just… listened.’ He smiles thinly, and begins tearing the grass into shreds. ‘I fucked everyone who was stupid enough to fall for me, and I left all of them because it helped me feel like I was in control. But when I was home Mags never made me explain. She never made me feel like I had to explain. She was just…there. Even when I screamed at her, she was there. I don’t know how she did it, but she was. And that’s what I want to do. I want to be there. As much as Snow will let me, I want to be there for you.’

He takes a deep breath, brushes the grass from his lap.

‘I got through it Annie. Everything you’re feeling, I felt that and I’m still alive.’

‘And you’re Finnick Odair.’ My cheeks are wet. ‘Finnick, you’re so much stronger than I am.’

‘No,’ Finnick sounds desperate, ‘No, I’m not. Annie, you are so full of compassion that you didn’t even want to kill a fucking bird when I tried to order you. In the Arena people see that as a weakness. But it’s not.’

I realize that I’m crying when the tears trickle over my lips. ‘You’ve done so much for me, Finnick. I would be dead if it wasn’t for you. But I don’t think I can do this. I can’t keep you here because you’re my mentor, or because you have a debt to repay.’

‘You think I want you to live here because – ’  Finnick brushes a hand over his face. ‘Jesus, Annie.’

We stare out at the sea again in silence, my feet trailing on the ground with the slow rocking of the swing seat. I don’t know what to say. Because I just don’t know, and because I wasn’t entirely truthful either.

I can’t bear to live with Finnick because I am terrified that if he touches me, my body will give me away. That being around him I won’t be able to stop from wanting more. I am terrified that I will fall for him utterly, and then he’ll leave me too.

The latest in a long line of stupid, stupid people.

 

***********************************

The next night when I wake up screaming, it’s Mags who hums to me and holds me close in the dark. In the morning when I wake again, she’s still there in her armchair beside me, head dozing against her chest and her hand holding mine on the pillow.

I spend as much of my time as possible in the garden, soaking up the last of summer. Mom and Dad keep to their word, and at least one of them visits me every day. On the third day, Mom arrives in the mid-afternoon, bringing both boys with her. Finn drags on Mom’s hand, thumb in his mouth and fear still lingering in his eyes. I could be sick with the shame. But I force myself to walk towards them, and crouch on the garden path. ‘Finny,’ I choke out, ‘I know I broke Mollysticks and shouted. I was scary and mean, and I’m so sorry.’ I take a deep breath. ‘A lot of scary things happened to me in the Hunger Games, Finny, and because of that I sometimes get scared and do scary things too. I’m hoping that I will get better.’ I hold out a little doll. ‘I made Mollysticks all better again, and she’d like to go home with you if you like.’

Finn reaches out and snatches the doll, then tucks himself back round behind Mom.

I stand, and give Mom a shaky smile. It’s a start.

‘Mr Finnick Odair, Ms Mags Cohen’ says Marcus, shaking their hands and standing ram-rod straight. ‘I am honoured to be a guest in your house.’

‘It is an honor to have you here, Mr Marcus Cresta’ Finnick says seriously. ‘Ms Cohen doesn’t like to speak, but she’d like you to call her Mags.’

By the third time he visits, Marcus careers up the garden path and collides with Finnick’s legs. ‘Finnick!’ he yells, grinning face upturned, and then flings his arms around Finnick’s waist. For a moment Finnick is aghast, and then his face splits into a massive smile. ‘Hey there, buddy.’

Finnick and I play hide and seek with Mags and the boys in the garden whilst my parents sit on the swing seat. Marcus directs us about, and starts off the counting.

Finnick pulls himself up into a tree at the back of the garden. I gently lead Finny by the hand to the flowerbed. As a pair, we are fairly obvious ducked next to the marigolds. Mags, however, moves so slowly that she is still within sight when Marcus finishes counting. At this point she steps behind a hedge and refuses to come out no matter how many times Marcus yells that he’s seen her. Finnick promptly gives himself away by laughing.

‘You’re not hiding properly,’ Marcus huffs. ‘Everyone go in the house this time. And you have to pick _good_ places to hide.’ He claps his hands over his eyes. ‘Fifty! Forty nine…’

‘Come on,’ I whisper to Finny, and we trot through the back door. Finnick disappears down the hall, my brother points to the stairs and I hold his hand as he takes them one by one, planting both feet firmly on each step.

‘Not in there, darling,’ I say, as we pass Finnick’s bedroom. The door is partially ajar, and I flush at the sight of rumpled bedclothes. ‘Why don’t we pick another room?’

‘Ready or not, here I come!’ I hear Marcus’ call.

‘Come on Annie, come on,’ Finny giggles, tugging me into the spare bedroom and towards a wardrobe reminiscent of the one our parents own, only larger. ‘Look!’

Nervously I open the doors and Finny clambers inside. I hear Finnick fake roar, Marcus squeal and laugh. ‘I found you, I found you!’

‘Quick Annie, hide,’ Finny says, and holds out his chubby arms to me. ‘Annie, hide with me. Please, Annie!’

I swallow, and crouch in beside him, turning to pull the doors almost to. Finny snuggles against me in the darkness. Feet creak on the landing. ‘How did Mags even win the Hunger Games?’ Marcus’ voice. ‘She’s older than Old Bab was, _and_ I don’t even think she can hear. You check that room.’

My breathing comes  faster. It’s a big wardrobe, I tell myself. They’ll find us any moment, and I can get out. I screw my eyes shut.

Then suddenly I am back in the underground chamber with Fannia. There’s water pooling about my feet. The air is thick, acidic, and the water is starting to hiss. I can still remember the way she screamed –

I burst out of the wardrobe, gasping, sobbing. Straight into someone’s chest. I rebound, and Finnick grasps my arms, which are flailing wildly in front of my face, holding me upright as my knees collapse. ‘Annie. _Annie_. It’s okay.’ His face swims into focus. ‘I’m here. You’re here. In my house, remember? You’re safe.’

Finnick holds me close to his chest, my fists scrunched together beside my face. I focus on the warmth of his arms around my shoulders, his shirt against my cheek, my own heart pounding. I am here. I’m safe. It’s over. I don’t have the energy to speak, I’m trying to control my frantic breathing, pushing back the darkness around the edges of my vision.

‘Annie?’ Finny’s voice quavers from the closet.

‘What’s going on?’ says Marcus. ‘I checked the other room…Annie?’

‘Why don’t you take your little brother down,’ says Finnick, ‘Annie and I will come in a minute, okay?’

‘Okay,’ says Marcus dubiously, but doesn’t leave.

‘I think she had a flashback,’ says Finnick gently. ‘That sort of thing can be very overwhelming.’

Their footsteps retreat. After a while I can feel Finnick’s heartbeat through his shirt, the calm, slow rise and fall of his chest. There are hot tears, watery snot on my cheeks. I rub at my face with one hand, give a little laugh.

‘Hey,’ Finnick says, and we open out from the embrace. He looks so different with his eyes this warm, deep green, no trademark smirk upon his face. ‘Let’s go get you washed up a little.’ I nod, and reach up to place my hands over Finnick’s where they sit on my shoulders. I give them a gentle squeeze. _Thank you._

He opens his mouth as though he wants to say something, but instead moves an arm down to my back, begins to walk us towards the main bathroom. This house has three – it’s ludicrous. He waits outside as I splash water on my face. The girl who stares back at me in the mirror has cheeks blotched red from crying and golden brown from the freckles that have come out in force after my week under the harsh, false sun of the Arena. Her bangs stick to her forehead in clumps, and her eyes are wide, wild. Hunted.

But she is _alive._

I leave the bathroom, Finnick pushes away from the wall. ‘If you need to rest, I can ask your parents…’

‘No,’ I say, ‘I feel better now.’ I take his hand, just briefly. ‘Thank you.’

‘Whatever you need,’ Finnick says simply, catching my eyes for a long moment. I swallow.

We head back out into the sunlight, and I come to sit in between my parents on the bench, lightly trembling.

‘Annie, are you okay?’ Marcus calls. I give a little wave.

‘Let’s go play over here, huh?’ says Finnick, grin back on his face, trotting down the lawn towards the back of the garden. ‘Come on, buddy.’ The two of them run after a ball that Mags has produced from somewhere.

‘Do you need to go take a break?’ Mom says, taking my hand again. ‘Marcus said you were crying.’

‘It’s okay,’ I give my parents a smile, ‘I’m okay now. I’m just happy to be here with you.’

Dad raises his eyebrows at me. Mom gives a sigh, and settles back into the bench.

 ‘So help me god,’ she says, ‘But that boy seems to be doing you good, Annie.’ She shakes her head. ‘Finnick Odair. Who’d have thought.’

Across the lawn, Finnick tosses Finny up in to the air, and my baby brother squeals with delight.

‘He understands what it was like in there,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ Mom says seriously, ‘And that’s a very powerful bond to draw two young people together.’

‘Mom,’ I stutter, ‘It’s not…we’re not…’

‘None of that, Annie,’ Dad waves his hand, ‘Your parents may be old, but we’re not as foolish as you think. I don’t want to insult the way you feel about each other – I can see that he’s been very kind.’ He clears his throat. ‘But at the end of the day, he is who he is. He has a life in the Capitol, with everything that comes with it. And the last thing you need is a broken heart.’

‘I know, Dad,’ and the tears threaten to return. ‘I know.’

‘We just worry that with everything you’re going through your emotions are quite vulnerable right now,’ says Mom gently.

‘Mom – stop,’ I say. ‘Please stop. Even if I did – I wouldn’t be that silly. I’m his mentee. He’s just worried about me like you are. We’re friends, but he’s never…he doesn’t see me that way.’

How could he? Broken little Annie Cresta, wrecked like a skiff after a storm. Before, I was ashamed of what my weakness meant. But even that was better than being disgusted by my whole self.

Dad clears his throat. ‘Whatever you say, Annie.’

***********************************

The voices don’t stop their cackling, taunting, their pernicious whispers in my ears. But sometimes, there’s new voices too. Louder voices, softer voices, voices that wrest back control as my mind slides back into the blood and salt and sunburn of the Arena, voices that drown out my panic and make it fade back into the edges of my perception. Sometimes it’s Finnick’s voice.

But mostly, it is my own.

One day, after a week or so has gone by, I am sitting in the garden when Mags comes to tap me on the shoulder. She beckons me to the front of the house, and I follow her out the door. A slim figure carrying a basket makes her way through the dappled light under the oak trees towards us.

Julie.

As she notices me her cheeks flush, and she gives a furious little wave. She comes to a stop at the open garden gate.

‘Annie,’ she says, ‘I know I didn’t call ahead but – I wanted to see you.’ She shifts from foot to foot, hands clasped on the basket in front of her. ‘We all do. I cried for the whole day when you won and… I mean, if now’s not a good time…’

I’m already running forward to fling my arms around her, my oldest friend, and then we’re both laughing and crying at once. Eventually we turn to walk arm in arm up the path, where Finnick stands in the doorway, an unreadable look on his face.

‘Mr Odair,’ Julie bobs her head, and blushes. ‘Sorry for turning up uninvited. I’m Julie Tran, we were a couple of years below you at school.’

‘Don’t apologize,’ Finnick stands back, pulling the door wider, ‘You’re a friend of Annie’s. You’re welcome any time. And call me Finnick – I’ll be upstairs, but Annie knows where everything is.’

A few minutes later we sit together on the swing seat, the fresh cookies she brought cooling on a plate beside. ‘On the last day everyone went completely wild,’ Julie tells me, my hands clasped in hers. ‘Mr Yokange came down to the big screen and started yelling that he’d bet both his trawlers on you winning.’ She shakes her head. ‘But then everyone had him on their shoulders, passing him around and cheering… the peacekeepers sent him home because he was _interrupting the transmission_ ,’ she signs quotation marks with her fingers, and grins.

I try to return her smile. I can’t believe that even crazy Mr Yokange could think I was going to win the Hunger Games.

‘When you were kind to that girl… tried to save Clyde,’ Julie shakes her head. ‘You didn’t have to do any of that, Annie. You were amazing. Flickerman was saying all sorts of ridiculous things about your strategy, but nobody cared, because we all knew it was just you being _you_. Being _Annie.’_  

Again my eyes fill with tears, but Julie frowns, misinterpreting.

‘God, what a stupid, selfish idiot I am. I won’t talk about the Games anymore.’ She raises our clasped hands to her lips and kisses them. ‘Tell me about something else, anything else at all. About living in this place. Or the Capitol. Or tell me about Finnick. What’s he really like?’

I take a deep breath. Clyde’s face, blood fizzing, flesh pooling away. _No._ I focus on Finnick. The look on his face the first day we met, when he asked me how badly I wanted to survive.  The sunlight playing with his hair as he lay on the grass beside me during that last day together. His breath tickling my ear, whispering my name when he was inside of me.

‘He’s… kind,’ I say. ‘Kinder than he looks.’

Julie tilts her head. ‘And how _does_ he look?’

The question takes me by surprise.  ‘Everything in the Capitol was so overwhelming… Even the people. Especially the people. The other Victors… It was hard to know how to take him at first.’

‘I see,’ Julie says, ‘He seemed pretty genuine in the hall just now. Apart from being shockingly gorgeous, I mean. But not like… flashy. Seductive. _The Capitol’s most eligible bachelor_ , or whatever. Like… you can actually believe he grew up here.’

‘He is genuine,’ I say, ‘He acts it up, the seduction thing.’

‘Has he tried it on you?’ Julie gives me a gentle nudge. ‘The seduction thing.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I stammer, and Julie frowns. ‘I mean…’

‘I don’t know if you saw any of the news while you were gone,’ Julie says slowly, ‘But they… made quite a big deal out of you two. Are you…?’

‘No,’ I say, ‘Not like that. Definitely not.’ My cheeks are hot.

‘Annie,’ she says, ‘You’re kind of living in his house.’

I shake my head. ‘Mom and Dad don’t have enough time to help look after me, and I didn’t want to be in the Victor’s village alone, and because Mags is already here Finnick offered...’ I trail off and sigh. ‘I understand why people think that.’

A bee buzzes lazily past us towards the flowerbeds. I bite my lip. There’s a low nag of worry that’s been building in my mind for days.

‘Did something happen between you guys?’ Then her eyes widen. ‘Annie, are you okay? Did he hurt you?’

‘No,’ I say, shocked. ‘Definitely no, never.’ I lower my voice. ‘But I need you to get me something. I can’t go into town right now because – it’s too much. Please don’t tell anyone.’

‘Anything I can do,’ she says fiercely. ‘Whatever it is, I would never tell.’

What Julie gets me is a small packet of pills. It says you only need to take one, and that you should ideally take them within the first week. I gulp down two in front of the bathroom mirror before bed, and wait for the cramps to start.

It’s funny how now I’m alive, I have to worry about mundane, living things. Like the possibility of a child. Something that I wept for when I thought I was going to die. Now the thought fills me with horror.

The rest of the pills I tuck inside one of my red shoes, pushed to the back of the closet. Too much of a coward to speak to Finnick about this. Too afraid to confirm that he’d forgotten, he didn’t worry, he didn’t care.

***********************************

I have another visitor this week, from a little farther afield.

‘You’ve got a holocall from Ambrosia,’ Finnick says, ‘She’s just getting off the train in town; I’m going to go and collect her.’

I gape at him and he grins. ‘She’s bribed three officials with free haircuts for life to get unauthorized District entry.’ Finnick’s lips quirk. ‘She also made me promise not to tell you until she was sure she could make it.’

I watch in amazement as Ambrosia totters up the street in her Capitol heels, lights in her hair twinkling sluggishly in the southern sun. She is laden down with bags, and drops all of them to pull me into an enormous hug, her face white.

We sit around the table at lunch, and Ambrosia says next to nothing the entire time, but simply holds my hand, tears streaming down her face. Afterwards we sit together. I lean my head into her shoulder, and breathe in her perfume.

‘I would never have survived the Capitol without you,’ I tell her.

‘Oh, shush,’ she says, ‘I’m just a … a _stylist_.’ She immediately bursts into sobs and crushes me into a hug. I squeeze back, gratitude pouring through my limbs.

Before she leaves that evening, she bends to press a kiss to my forehead. ‘Honeyplum,’ she whispers. ‘Annie. You are so brave.’

She leaves all the bags behind. Finnick and I open them one by one, unwrapping dresses, blouses, loose pants. There is a pair of thickly soled boots, finely crafted from soft brown leather with blue stitching around the rim, and a broad brimmed hat with a green satin ribbon. None of the pieces are covered in glitter or pearls or electric bulbs, and the fabrics won’t tear or snag or be ruined by stains. The colors are gorgeous, but not so garish that anyone would look twice at me down in the town. I have no idea how I’ll find time to wear them all, but everything fits perfectly. They are the loveliest gifts Ambrosia could possibly have given me.

The next day, Finnick takes me to the sea. We walk down a path that by-passes the town, over the top of low cliffs and then becomes a thin, sandy track which zig zags its way down through banks of ferns. Warblers twitter from the shrubs lining the path, and then the track opens into a long, shallow bay. There’s no-one here but us, and a couple of white boats back beyond the headland, a few kilometers west.

I stand with my bare toes scrunched in the sand so the wash runs over them, sucking at my ankles, pulling the grains down into little wet hollows around my feet. It’s the first time I’ve been on the shore since that night.

I am still afraid. I still wake up in a cold sweat in the night, and sometimes it comes upon me in the day, paralyzing me with terror, and with self-loathing.

But I know now, with fierce certainty, that I want to live. I want to live for my family who welcomed me back with open arms. I want to live for Fannia, for Quiver, for poor little Thorborn. Even for Kayn, for Cashmere, for Jordan. I want to live for all of them. I want to live for every child who’s ever had their life stolen by that Arena.

I want to live for myself.

Finnick slings his rucksack down onto the sand, and steps out to join me in the water.

‘What did you want to be, Annie?’ Finnick says. ‘When you were little, I mean.’

‘I… I wanted a family. To live by the sea. Perhaps be a nurse; earn enough to look after Mom and Dad well when they’re old.’ I blush. My dreams seem so small and simple. ‘I guess I could probably afford to pay for training now.’ Off to our left, a family of plovers run out into the backwash, fluttering away as the waves return in their endless rhythm. ‘What about you?’

‘I wanted to fish. Work out on the boats with the other men. Then I wanted to learn to fight like a Career, because I was young and stupid. You know what I want now?’ His eyes burn. ‘I want to end all of this, Annie. To stop them from ever hurting people like you ever again.’

‘People like us, Finnick,’ I say. ‘People like Darius and the other Avoxes. People in the Districts where they barely have enough to eat.’

I wade forward a little, till the breakers lap around my shins. The breeze tugs at the ribbon on Ambrosia’s hat and teases the hem of my skirt, cool upon my bare legs. The days are getting shorter.

‘I was good at fishing,’ Finnick says, ‘But I’m better at other things. Persuading people to tell me things.’ His lips twist. ‘Killing them if I have to.’

‘It won’t come to that, Finnick,’ I say, staring at him. ‘There are people who want change – people with power. We already know about Senator D’Archour. Ophelia. Johanna. When there are enough of us President Snow will listen. He _has_ to listen.’

The idea of more death terrifies me. The idea of Finnick being part of that terrifies me. _Trident in his hand, blood staining his bronze hair dark, blood mixed with seawater and running red rivulets down his neck._ I can’t let that happen again. I can’t let that ever, ever happen again.

Finnick purses his lips, stares out at the ocean. ‘I wish I had your optimism, Annie.’

‘Finnick,’ I ask, ‘What did the Senator tell you? During the Games – the message I passed on?’

Finnick swallows. ‘I met someone else. Another Victor, an older guy – I’ve seen him before at a couple of galas. He told me to wait for someone to get in touch. A woman. He told me she’s interested in recruiting Victors like me.’ He turns to me, the same thin smile on his face. The _Finnick Odair_ smile. ‘And not because I know how to swim or can man a fishing boat.’

‘Finnick,’ I say, my voice breaking. Instinctively I reach out, to touch him. To brush away the lines of worry between his eyes.

His fingers close around my wrist in a vice, and I jump. ‘Don’t,’ he whispers. ‘I can’t.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I stumble over my words. ‘I thought – I wasn’t thinking –’

Finnick abruptly lets go of my wrist, runs his hands over his face. ‘You’re the first person in five years I never wanted to be afraid of me,’ he says, and his lips pull into a grimace. ‘And somehow I still keep managing it.’

He strides forward through the water, and dives beneath the waves.

‘Finnick,’ I call. My heart sinks, full to the brim but heavier than a stone. ‘Finnick!’

He surfaces a few moments later further out, in almost up to his waist and shirt soaked to his skin. ‘Who am I, Annie?’ he calls back to me. ‘What am I?’

‘Finnick,’ I take off my hat, and fling it back to shore like a frisbee. Then I wade out towards him, throat tightening with a touch of fear. ‘Finnick, what do you mean?’

‘No – don’t come out here,’ he says, ‘You’ll get soaked.’ He begins to splash back towards me. ‘I’m an idiot, Annie. A melodramatic idiot.’ He shakes out his hair, gold beads of water flicking about him. I want to reply, but the words are frozen in my throat.

‘It’s driving me mad,’ he says. He sloshes towards me, the water he churns up sticking the thin fabric of my dress to my thighs. ‘I can’t stop thinking about that night, Annie. Can’t stop thinking that to you I was just – how I am to all of them. A pretty boy you wanted to get in to bed and then throw away once you’d done. But I can’t get you out of my head.’ The sea and the sunlight make his green eyes bright, reflecting back shades of blue and gold. ‘I don’t _want_ to get you out of my head, Annie,’ he says, ‘And that scares the shit out of me.’

My head spins with what he’s saying, I can’t keep up. ‘I’m not afraid of you, Finnick. I knew you would never hurt me. I knew that as soon as I met you.’

‘Of course I wouldn’t fucking hurt you,’ he says. ‘I’m a killer, not a monster. I’m human. I’m just a man.’

‘Then believe it,’ I say. ‘Believe, it Finnick. Because I always have.’

He’s breathing hard, wet hair sticking every which way across his forehead. ‘What am I to you, Annie?’ The look in his eyes is anguished. ‘What happened between us? Tell me, am I going mad?’

‘ _I’m_ the one who’s going mad, not you, remember,’ I say. ‘You’re Finnick. You’re you _._ ’ My voice breaks. _‘_ How could I ever want to throw you away?’

He kisses me. His lips taste like salt and sunlight, crushed against mine. His fingers tremble as they run up my neck, through my hair, and I clutch at his wet shirt, press my body forward so it curves into his, a lightning bolt of desire running through my chest and into the pit of my stomach. He locks an arm around my waist to pull me against him, and his body is warm and solid through my thin dress. He kisses me fiercely, desperately, and we stumble through a breaker.

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ he says, pulling back and his breath warm on my face. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated. He is absolutely devastating. ‘Please don’t say anything. But I’m a little bit in love with you, Annie Cresta.’

My stomach swoops. I run my hands up through his hair, tacky from the salt water, and pull his face against mine once more. _Finnick_. I’m smiling against his lips, and so is he. Then he’s laughing, great bright peals of laughter, his hands against my waist and spinning me around and around so my legs kick up spray that sparkles in the sunlight.

He wades back to shore, still kissing me, half carrying me in front of him. Out on to the warm sand, he gives me a grin that makes my breath hitch, and tugs me up the beach back towards the start of the rise, where the ground becomes a soft tussle of ferns. I lean backwards into the spiraled leaves, tugging him down by the hand, and his eyes burn me up as he clambers over me and leans down to kiss me again under the thin dapples of shade.

After a moment I grab the sides of his shirt, tugging it upwards until he gets the idea and throws it off over his head. I run my hand down the muscles of his chest, along the fine trail of golden hair that darkens into bronze down his abdomen, and his eyelids flutter closed.

He leans back down and presses a kiss against the side of my jaw. I tilt back my head and shudder as his lips graze my neck. My dress has hitched up and he places a hand on my exposed thigh. He pulls back from the kiss, our foreheads touching as his fingers trace gently, slowly, higher. His eyes ask a question. I want this. I am aching to be touched. His thumb brushes over the front of my panties, and I give a little gasp. Then his fingers slide under the fabric, begin to move against me, and I moan.

‘That’s the sound I couldn’t forget,’ he says, as I rock into his touch. ‘It’s been keeping me awake at night.’

‘Finnick,’ I gasp, and he grins down at me, and pulls his hand away. My whole body is burning up, and I laugh at how desperate I am for him to continue. He undoes the buttons down the front of my dress, one by one, kissing over my chest bone, down my stomach. I shimmy out of the fabric, and kick it beside him. He gently tugs the fabric of my panties lower, and then his fingers are against me again, pressure against the hot slick lips of my body, and I sigh in pleasure.

He smiles, and kisses me softly, as the heat between my legs builds steadily. His fingers move more quickly, and I moan again, my back arching involuntarily. His breaths as he kisses me are shallower, ragged, and I can feel his erection pressing against me. Then he pulls his fingers away again, and I stare at him in amazement. Is he trying to torture me? Finnick laughs against my mouth, and tugs my bottom lip with his teeth, his other hand smoothly lifting up one leg so that it slides out of my underwear.

Once more he kisses his way down my neck, over my breasts and abdomen, this time his eyes locked onto mine. My heart skips as he hitches one of my legs up and runs his lips down the inside of my thigh. Then he kisses between my legs. His tongue moves inside of me and my whole body shudders. I throw my head back in bliss, gasping. A sweet pressure is building through the lower part of my body that locks my pelvis in place, and I gasp up at the blue, blue sky, hands grasping at the stems of ferns around me, because I need something to ground me against the shock of how good it is. Finnick runs his hands up my stomach as he licks deeper inside of me, and then I gasp as a wave of exquisite pleasure sweeps up through my whole body, leaving my legs trembling, my mind melting downwards into the ferns and being washed away.

Finnick climbs back up beside me, propping himself up on one elbow. He grins at me and presses a kiss to the side of my mouth. It’s funny to taste myself on his lips.

We lie there for hours, listening to the rustle of fern branches, to the call of the sea beyond. I trace my fingers down Finnick’s chest, drink in every inch of his body. The breeze plays with his hair, lifting it in gentle waves.

We wander back up over the cliffs, hand in hand. The warm golden light of the afternoon pours through my whole being, and for the first day since I returned from the Arena, the dark prickling has fled from the back corners of my mind. At least for the moment.

As we come down the avenue under the grizzled branches draped in soft moss, I notice Mags come out of the front door to wait by the gate. The warmth of the ocean sunlight fades abruptly from my skin. I look at Finnick and his jaw is clenched tight. 

We come to a stop by the gate, and if Mags notices our clasped hands, she doesn’t feel the need to acknowledge it. She gives us both a soft smile, and turns to Finnick with a gaze which speaks of an ageless sadness, and signs something with her fingers.

‘What’s happened?’ I say. With a rising dread I already know the answer.

‘I’ve been called back to Capitol,’ Finnick says. ‘Tonight. Where I’m sure there are lots of _friends_ waiting for me.’

 

***********************************

Johanna Mason bursts into the sitting room.

‘Just like Finnick,’ she says, tossing a large holdall into the corner. ‘Dragging me away from a weekend with Vamos to _babysit._ And no, _’_ she holds up a hand towards Mags, who has entered with her arms outstretched, ‘I can’t fucking stand hugs, as you well know. I prefer alcohol.’

Mags retreats. Johanna flings herself down on the couch opposite to me and crosses a leg up on the opposite knee. She glares, and I stare back in amazement. The book I have been trying and failing to read all morning sits abandoned by my side.

Mags returns with a steaming pot of tea. I thank her, and Johanna glowers. ‘Fuck’s sake; I’ll get it myself.’ Mags leaves, and Johanna begins rifling through a cabinet at the side of the room. ‘I know he keeps some…ha!’

She resurfaces with a bottle of whiskey, and smacks down two tumblers on the table between us. ‘I know you’re about to tell me you don’t drink, because you’re a fucking annoying little princess. But between the two of us _I’m_ the expert on how to survive life as a Victor,’ She pours me a generous measure. ‘So drink.’

Johanna settles back into the couch, takes a long sip and sighs. I cradle my glass nervously between my fingers.

‘So,’ she cocks her head. ‘How are you enjoying your new anointed life as a glorious Victor and shining beacon of hope to the great unwashed of District 4?’

I blink. ‘I have PTSD,’ I say.

Johanna raises her glass. ‘All part of the job description, sweetpea.’ She glances at the door. ‘This lot managing to keep you from the brink?’

‘Mags has been so lovely,’ I say.

‘Lovely?’ Johanna splutters. ‘Mags is a conniving bitch. She’s always pulling some old person dementia shit to trick you into things.’ She takes another drink. ‘Congrats for not dying, by the way.’

I gape at her, then laugh. Somehow this makes Johanna’s scowl deepen, and then abruptly I find myself having to choke back sobs. Johanna looks at me as though I might explode at any moment.

‘I’m alright,’ I say, ‘I’m just – It’s good to see you Johanna.’

‘Stop,’ she says, and downs the rest of her whiskey. ‘I have to put up with your presence, not your nonsense.’ She smacks down the tumbler. ‘What exactly does one do for fun around here?’

‘Well, there’s the beach,’ I say, ‘And the garden is beautiful…’

Johanna waves her hand. ‘I need another drink.’

‘Johanna… Finnick didn’t say you were coming. If you were busy this weekend, please, don’t stay.’

‘Yeah. Too late, I’m here.’ She pours herself out another measure. ‘Finnick asked me. I don’t know if he’s worried you’re suicidal, or you’ve done something to him,’ she pins me with dark eyes over the top of the tumbler, ‘But either way, whatever.’ 

‘Done something?’ I’m momentarily afraid for him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Let’s just say he doesn’t normally sound so upset about going back to hang out with the high and mighty. Most of the time I swear he actually enjoys it.’

I twist my fingers in my lap. ‘How is he? Did you see him before you left?’

‘Why are you asking me?’ She pulls out a datapad, a huge, unsettling grin on her face. ‘Why don’t you check for yourself? Let’s see…’ The datapad projects several holomag sheets into the air, and Johanna swipes lazily through them. ‘ _Velvet_ is flying the flag for your tragic, star crossed love.’ She pouts dramatically. ‘What happened to Annie? Is she fucked in the head? Where did she go, and why doesn’t Finnick give a shit about her anymore? Such a _tragedy._ ’ She swipes again. ‘Oh, here we are. Finnick Odair papped last night at an exclusive club down town. Seen leaving the party with Keechee McCauley – now _she_ has some legs on her – but then he came back two hours later? Cheeky bastard. I’m so proud. And then he left again _,_ this time with _both_ the Dianzo twins, but was papped again two hours ago leaving an apartment on Prosperity Avenue that _I_ happen to know belongs to Gorgrot Font.’ She tosses the datapad to one side. ‘Sounds like a good time, and it’s only Tuesday.’

Oh, Finnick.

Johanna tilts her head to one side. ‘That’s it? Not even a little twinge of jealousy?’

‘How could I be?’ I shake my head. My stomach churns, but it’s not jealousy. It’s sadness. ‘Even if he had a real choice…who am I to tell him who he can sleep with?’

The clock on the mantelpiece ticks through the silence. Johanna watches me through narrowed eyes.

‘You know what my mentor told me?’ she says eventually, ‘Don’t fuck your tribute unless you know they’re gonna die.’

I blink. Maybe I would be shocked, if it wasn’t Johanna. If I hadn’t taken another type of pill this morning, one that makes everything a little distant, a little grey. Perhaps I am supposed to laugh, or maybe would that hurt her feelings. Is she trying to hurt _my_ feelings?

‘God,’ Johanna snaps, ‘What does it take to get a reaction out of you?’

‘I find you a little confusing,’ I say slowly, clasping my hands in my lap. ‘It’s hard to know what to say.’

‘ _I’m_ confusing?’ she huffs, kicking her legs up over the side of the couch and flopping her head back onto a cushion. ‘ _You’re_ confusing. Look at you, sat there, all sweet and dopey and acting completely innocent after everything that’s happened. Like you’re not even scared’

‘I’m not innocent,’ I say quietly. ‘I _am_ scared.’

Johanna groans dramatically. ‘You’re supposed to be furious, Annie. Furious at everyone! Or rolling around the Capitol up to your eyes in drugs and having the time of your life. Going fucking wild, going insane. Raging. I don’t know. Screaming. Something. Anything _.’_

 ‘I’m trying to be… accepting,’ I say.

‘Oh my gooood _,’_ Johanna says, and flops her head back down onto the pillow. ‘I am going to _die_ of boredom here.’

If my brain was working a little faster today, maybe I could think of something to say… or something we could do together. No, something Johanna could do alone, she’d definitely prefer that. But I am content to look at the wallpaper.

‘I’m trying to figure out what Finnick sees in you,’ Johanna muses, staring up at the ceiling. ‘With any luck he’ll be over you soon, and we’ll be rid of you. Cute. Innocent. Girl next door. Terrible conversation. Obviously a virgin.’ She turns her head to face me with that sharp, dangerous smile of hers.  ‘Well. _Was._ ’

I meet her gaze, and hope my cheeks aren’t warming. It’s not like it’s anything to be ashamed of.

‘Repressed little District girl,’ Johanna says, ‘I’m sure you were dying to clamber all over him.’

I’m not going to answer that, but Johanna doesn’t wait for a reply anyway. ‘Oh no, don’t tell me. Not repressed, just waiting for that special someone.’ She snorts. ‘Then you got the chance to sleep with Finnick Odair, and out went all your morals.’

‘I didn’t sleep with him because he’s _Finnick Odair,’_ I say, frowning.

‘But you _did_ sleep with him,’ she says in triumph. ‘Exactly how many days did your precious girlhood hold out against Panem’s biggest sex symbol?’

 ‘Johanna, I know you think I’m distracting Finnick,’ I say. ‘If that’s what this is about –’

‘It’s not _about_ anything,’ she snarls. ‘I’m pissed that Finnick has turned out to be a soppy hearted bastard. I’m pissed that _you_ , of all people, have thrown him out of whack. I don’t know what the fuck you did to him, but I’ve never – I’ve never seen him like this before.’ She’s breathing hard, her eyes burning.

‘I care about him too,’ I say, ‘I promise, I would never hurt him.’

‘Too fucking late, Annie,’ says Johanna, swinging herself round so she’s sitting upright, fixing me with her gaze across the table. ‘The whole of Panem knows the rumors about you two. And you can bet President Shitting Snow finds it wonderfully interesting that Finnick Odair is keeping you in his own _house._ ’

Oh, I am so, so stupid. I’m going to vomit.

‘Yeah,’ snaps Johanna, ‘Exactly.’

I shake my head, and for a moment I stare out the window without really seeing.

‘If you actually care about him,’ Johanna says, ‘You need to stay the fuck away from him.’

She’s right. I should stay far, far away. Not be seen with Finnick ever again. Not endanger the precarious balance he’s carved out for himself in the Capitol, where everyone wants him and he wants no-one. The balance that makes him appear untouchable. The only thing that keeps them believing they don’t actually have the power to hurt him.

We sit in silence for a few moments.

 ‘Are you and Vamos together?’ I ask.

Johanna snorts. ‘Please.’

‘Did you ever… have someone?’

Johanna re-crosses her legs, and looks away.

‘Do you ever…’ I swallow. ‘Can you ever…’

‘No,’ she says. ‘Because if they knew I cared, they would kill her.’

Of everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours, it’s this that makes the tears finally come. I blink furiously until they subside. The snarl on Johanna’s face dares me to give her platitudes, sympathy, so that she has an excuse to loathe me for all of eternity.

‘Someday, this won’t happen anymore.’ I’m not sure if I’m talking to Johanna or myself. ‘The Games. The way they treat you and Finnick and all of the other Victors. There’ll be change.’

Johanna laughs. It’s bitter and uncomfortable. I make a decision.

‘I know you and Finnick have been searching for other people who want political reform,’ I say, ‘Some sort of … movement. I met someone who agrees with you. Someone with influence. She wanted me to talk to Finnick about it. There are more like her,’ I don’t smile at her, because I know she wouldn’t like it. But my voice is pure conviction. ‘There really is hope that all of this will change.’

_And I want to be part of that hope._

Johanna stares at me, a muscle in her jaw working furiously. ‘What, you think we could just have a nice chat with the President, and persuade him to stop sending children to their deaths?’ She begins to pour herself a third glass of whisky. ‘To be honest, suit yourself. I’d love to watch those Capitol brats being eaten alive in the Arena.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ I say automatically.

Johanna smirks. ‘Oh, I do.’

 _This is what they do to us._ I stare at my tumbler of whiskey, still untouched on the table in front of me. In one quick movement, I swallow it down. Amber liquid burns my throat, sharpens my resolve.

‘I’m not going to stay away from Finnick,’ I say. ‘But I’m not stupid. I won’t compromise his position. I won’t get in the way of his life or his lovers. If I need to, I’ll stay here. But I _won’t_ lie down and take this… threat. Not from you, or anyone. They’ve taken more than enough from us already. Let them see that he isn’t theirs, and he never was.’

Johanna puts her glass down. ‘Well, well.’

‘But I need your help.’

She narrows her eyes. ‘Here we go.’

‘I know about what happened to your family,’ I say. _And I’m so, so sorry._ ‘I’m worried about mine.’

Johanna’s face is white. I take a deep breath, because I am about to make the most selfish request of my life.

‘If I do this,’ I say, ‘If something… goes wrong. If things become too dangerous, if they have to get away quickly. Will you help me keep them safe?’

Johanna stares at me, and taps her nails against the side of her glass.

‘You’re asking me,’ she says. ‘To stick out my neck to help you.’ She sneers. ‘Because I have nothing to lose.’

 _Because we both have everything to lose._ ‘Because I trust you.’

The nail tapping is a thin, high pitched ringing. The look in her eyes could be hatred. She stands abruptly. ‘I’m getting out of here.’

I stand too, and she pushes past me towards the door. I pick up her holdall, and follow her into the corridor. Mags peeks out of the kitchen, catches my eye then blithely turns away as though nothing is happening.

‘Johanna,’ I begin.

She turns around, one hand on the open front door. I pass her the holdall.

‘I’ll do it,’ she snarls. ‘But not for you. And don’t ask me again.’

My chest uncoils in relief.  I reach out and touch her shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ I say.

She tenses like a cat, and her upper lip quivers. I pull back my hand.

‘Cute, virginal and also a fucking moron,’ Johanna says. She leans in and before I can react, she kisses me. And then she bites down on my lower lip, hard. I gasp, tasting blood, and jerk back.

Johanna laughs.

My lips still sting as she waltzes her way back down the path. ‘By the way, Annie,’ she calls, stopping at the gate. Her grin is all teeth. ‘Congratulations on your first kill.’

I won’t reply to that. I’m still not sure what to think of Johanna Mason, but I do know that I’m not afraid of her any more.

***********************************

The deep, reverberating hum of the train lowers in tone and then fades beneath my feet. I stand before the sleek metal doors, small suitcase in one hand and Ambrosia’s hat in the other. The dress I wear is from Ambrosia too: white and long sleeved, creamy lace over a loosely shaped bodice falling into an ankle length skirt. I wear my bangs down and my hair brushed straight over my shoulders.

I kissed Mags’ cheek, and left her with a bouquet of beach ferns and the knowledge that I’d see her soon. My parting with my family wasn’t a forever goodbye this time, but my father still cried on the platform. It was shock, more than anything, because I made my decision only yesterday.

The doors open, and my stomach clenches. Autumn has already reached the mountain ranges of the north west, and cool, damp air runs through my hair as I step down onto the platform.

‘It’s her! She’s here!’ Lights flash in my face. People calling my name from the edges of the platform. I didn’t tell anyone that I was coming, but I don’t expect privacy or secrecy. Not anymore. My stomach churns. Too many people. Too many faces. But I can keep calm – I _will_ be calm _._ They will not see me have a breakdown. Not again, anyway.

I hold my head high, a polite smile on my face, and walk as Ophelia taught me. Strong, calm and poised. I’m a Victor, and I have every right to be here.

I have every right to visit the Capitol whenever I want.

‘Annie?’

Finnick. Finnick stands on the platform. I guess that explains the paparazzi. When our eyes meet, it’s just as overwhelming as the first time I saw him. He stares at me, hair mussed as though he’s been running his hands through it. As though he’s just climbed up out of the ocean, or out of someone else’s bed. He’s wearing a deep green polo neck, wool that fits smoothly to the lean curves of his shoulders.

He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. 

 ‘I never thought you would come back,’ he says, walking towards me slowly, each step and word measured and calm. But his lips are parted, and I can sense the tension in the way he holds his hands, long fingers slightly curled.  ‘Not back here. But I called Mags and…’ He comes to a stop in front of me. There’s a freckle on his cheekbone from the last of the summer heat, already fading back into the gold of his skin. His eyes run up my dress, back to my face. Dazed. ‘Annie…what are you doing here?’

I place down my suitcase beside me. He really can’t imagine it, after everything. This kind, gorgeous man still cannot believe that I could want him. That I could love him. When every logical fiber in my body says it is ludicrous for him to love me.

‘Finnick,’ I say softly, and I put everything I have into those syllables, looking up into his sea-green eyes. ‘I’m here to be with you.’

The first light touch of rain tickles my cheek, and I breathe in his scent. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, as though he’s about to speak again. Instead, he leans down and kisses me.

A hundred camera lights go off, shrieks and shouts. In front of all of Panem, Finnick Odair is kissing me. His lips are warm and dry, and I am right where I need to be. One hand brushes mine, and I interlock our fingers. I smile as we pull apart, and he rests our foreheads together.

‘Annie,’ he says, his voice dazed, ‘You’re incredible. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

‘Wherever you want me to be,’ I say, ‘I’ll be there.’

We leave the station hand in hand, past overdressed commuters who whisper and stare. The huge, ugly towers of the Capitol crowd out the sky above us. The paparazzi follow in a small crowd, crowing out his name, demanding another kiss, circling. Finnick doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still gazing at me, grinning. Six or seven photographers block our way on the sidewalk, and a dark suited man elbows his way through towards us. ‘Darius,’ I smile, and he tilts his head, gestures towards a car parked at the curb. Finnick finally responds to the paparazzi, laughing at something one of them has said before giving the sort of smile that makes the joker go quiet, and the rest take a few steps back. I squeeze his hand a little tighter.

We slide into the leather seats of the back and Darius shuts the door on the noise, pulling silently out into the road. I can breathe again, although amongst the chaos of the station, the alien cityscape dripping with metal and glass that surrounds me, the pressure of keeping back the chattering voices in my mind sets a headache growing.

And yet, there’s a well of joy beneath the tightness in my chest. I am right where I need to be. Finnick takes my trembling hand. He kisses me again, deeper this time, and the joy pools outwards, warmth soothing and loosening my muscles. His hand trails over my chest. I want to run my fingers across his waist, feel the skin under his shirt. Later.

I rest my head on his shoulder, and he plants a kiss in my hair. I close my eyes, and let my body be rocked by the motion of the car.

 ‘I’m scared, Annie,’ Finnick whispers, ‘For everything that’s coming.’

‘Me too,’ I reply.

Rain beats against the window. Outside, block after block of glass towers and marble monoliths skim by, figures struggling onwards under vibrantly colored umbrellas. I catch a glimpse of mountains looming under the darkening sky before the car sweeps down into an underpass.

‘Darius,’ Finnick says in the dark, ‘Where are you going? We’ll have to pass under the whole lake now.’

Darius turns towards us, his face bathed in alternate bars of yellow light and shadow as the car continues through the tunnel. He holds something out to Finnick – a small, cubic device with a dome of glass on one surface. Like something you might find jumbled in the back of the hardware store back home. Old tech.

Darius locks eyes with each of us for a long moment, and Finnick takes the device. There’s a slight tremble in his fingers.

A light on the cube blinks on, and throws up a projection – a shaky, two-dimensional hologram. The picture sharpens into a woman with a sharp collar and hair the color of iron.

'Finnick Odair, Annie Cresta,' says the woman, her voice crackling, tinny.  'So glad to finally catch you at a moment where our channels won’t be detected.’ She smiles, and it makes me shiver.

‘My name is Alma Coin. Welcome to the resistance.’


End file.
